


Nymphet of Suburbia

by Amanitus



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: And Ciel Wants The Wrong Sort Of Snuggles, Ciel Phantomhive is a Brat, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Gaslighting, Grooming, I hesitate to call any of it fluff, Incest, Internal Conflict, It's filth, M/M, Manipulation, Modern Era, Not Canon Compliant, Not particularly sweet, Not particularly tasteful, Psychological Warfare, Rough Sex, Sebastian is a manipulative piece of shit, Sexual Content, Shit it grew a plot, Shota, Single Dad Makes Bad Decisions, Size Difference, Slutty Ciel, Smut, Social Commentary, Suburban AU, Tears, Threesomes, Twin Cities MN, Vincent is not a good man, Watersports, when it's actually emotional manipulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanitus/pseuds/Amanitus
Summary: Vincent knelt down, holding up the kid's t-shirt, and he was level with the bruises. With his son’s kitten nipples, sharp and pink and shadowed with splotched purple. Marked. Bitten, and Vincent pulled the t-shirt down again. He looked up at Ciel’s closed white face.‘What,’ he said, ‘the fuck is this?’‘Nothing,’ said Ciel, again, and he opened his blue eyes wide and wet and fluttering. Faltering.‘Where were you? When I was looking for you?’‘Garage.’ Concrete scuffs, raw on his bare knees.‘With who?’‘Mhhm,’ said Ciel. His little pink mouth was pressed closed. His chin was crumpling. ‘Nobody.’People are talking about Vincent's kid.Vincent doesn't like it.He doesn't like the way Ciel looks at his daddy's grown-up friend, either.It's a vent fic. Lacking any plot or possible moral redemption. The tags say it all, really.
Relationships: Ciel Phantomhive/Vincent Phantomhive, Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 174
Kudos: 366





	1. Lemonade

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the works of the delicious [teasmudge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasmudge/) and  
> [whore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whore/pseuds/whore/works?fandom_id=155456/).
> 
> This story has gotten a lot of different responses from readers so far, from bafflement and cheerful enthusiasm all the way to anxiety and disgust. This is understandable. I'd be concerned if many readers found this enjoyable. And I can only say-- if it makes you uncomfortable at any point, please stop reading. Heck knows I'm not into censorship but I've received a lot of feedback about this one, and nobody should be forcing themselves to consume any work they feel uneasy about, even if 'fiction doesn't affect reality' or 'we're all adults here' or you genuinely like a lot of dark shit.
> 
> I'm not sure I could handle this fic if I wasn't the one writing it. It's a massive vent, and what began as an experimental one-shot has become a lengthy (and viciously cathartic) character study exploring depravity, denial, and an almost laughable lack of self-awareness. If the warning tags aren't things you're already comfortable with handling, I'd really hate this fic to be an introduction because the only morality here is completely grey.
> 
> Having said that, I'm writing it with the same attitude that I approach everything else-- _write even the difficult things with deliberate care _\--and I continue to be proud of the monster I created.__

‘Sorry. Just a minute.’

The woman said something in reply but Vincent wasn’t listening; he was arching on tiptoes to see over all their heads, across the backyard. He couldn’t see his kid anywhere. 

Not in the crowd around the smoking barbecue or over at the rusted-out swing set, or down past the fucking horrible water fountain-- water feature?-- cheap suburbia, all of it, and he didn’t even want to be here. Wouldn’t be at all, if Sebastian hadn’t asked him to turn up today and save him from the soccer moms: some friend. Now Vincent was the one being mobbed by painted-on faces, and they were still yapping at him. About him. 

_Vincent lost his wife, he needs a bit of extra attention._

_And his son, did you see? He’s a little handful. Dressed like that--_

Ciel was a handful of something, anyway, and nowhere in sight. 

_Dressed like that._ Vincent had almost said something before they left the house. But he hadn’t said anything. He spent a lot of time doing that; watching Ciel, and not saying anything. Watching the kid paint his toe-nails in the living room. Watching him unpacking his lunchbox after school, standing at the kitchen counter with his skinny knees scuffed up and the corner of his soft mouth still dark with dried blood. 

It would be a stupid question anyway. _You want to tell me what’s going on?_ If the answer was _yes_ , he’d already know about it. 

Vincent wouldn’t say a thing, not even when it took the kid two hours to walk the five blocks home from school.

Ciel would go up to his bedroom, trailing the schoolbag _thump_ on the carpeted stairs behind him, and Vincent would say nothing about the sequined dangles hanging from the zipper of it. He’d watch, though, the skinny legs and the swing of the denim shorts. He’d wonder if that was a bruise on the back of his boy’s neck, just peeking over the top of the loose t-shirt. 

_His grades are still okay,_ said Ms Walters. Math and Science. _I wouldn’t worry._

 _He’s always been quiet,_ said Sebastian, _hasn't he?_ But the guy didn’t have kids himself. Had never even had a girlfriend for longer than a couple months.

 _Children go through phases_ , said Felicity-from-work. _Mine did. Cody did, last year_.

Cody gave himself a buzz-cut. Fucking _Cody_ doesn’t sit up on the kitchen counter, watching his father make banana splits, sucking chocolate sauce from his fingers. Noisily.

 _Phases._ People were talking about Vincent’s kid.

It stung him. He was parenting, wasn’t he? He was giving the boy some space.

‘Christ,’ said Vincent, out loud, and he thought one of the soccer moms flinched. But it was fine. 

Everything was fine. He could see Ciel now, over at the swings, and Vincent excused himself from the pack of shark-faced women. Pretended he needed a refill of the low-carb can of shit he wasn’t drinking anyway and made his way across the crowded yard towards his son. 

Ciel looked like a skinny twig beside the beefy kid who was talking at him, and he was poking at his drink, stripey straw in the lemonade can, daydreaming off in his head somewhere by the looks of it. Rubbing one bare calf against the other in his little coral-pink sneakers. _Dressed like that;_ not suitable for a Saturday barbeque at Felicity-from-work’s sister’s place. 

Not suitable for a boy who’d started high-school already, those cut-off denim shorts and the wristful of little beaded bracelets. Blush-pink on his delicate veined eye-lids. Was he wearing make-up? Blue studs glistening in his ears. A baby-blue t-shirt that didn’t quite cover the dip of his pale navel. Blue clothes, pink mouth, goose-fleshed white skin. 

‘Hey,’ said Vincent, across the squealing toddlers in the blow-up plastic pool. 

His son didn’t hear. Or just didn’t look up. 

And Vincent walked around the pool to the swings.

Ciel was frowning down at his can of lemonade, and the cropped sides of his soft cloudy-blue hair were damp along his temples like he’d been dunking in the kiddy pool. But he hadn’t. His t-shirt was stained wet on the front. He'd spilt his drink on it. There was a scratch down his leg like he’d been kicking in the shrubs behind him; had he? And his knees were scuffed again. Always. He was leaning against the rusty uprights of the swing-set, poking at his drink, white as if he’d just been pulled off a rollercoaster. 

Vincent looked at Ciel. Ciel didn’t look up. Not at him, not at anyone, and Vincent realised his kid was ignoring everybody hard, but most of all the man in the black button-down shirt who was standing next to him. 

‘Hey,’ said Vincent again, to Sebastian this time. ‘They’ve got Heineken? Nobody told me.’

Sebastian only sipped his beer and didn’t answer. He winked, though, and Vincent swallowed hard. The guy had been his friend since high-school but he had this face sometimes that made you want to break a baseball bat over it.

He turned back to his son. ‘I was looking for you. There’s cake inside, the other kids were going bat-shit over it. You want some?’

Ciel looked up at him, a funny little look with his big blue eyes slow-blinking, and his pointed face looked very white, and very sick, and Vincent cleared his throat. 

‘What's up? You’re not hungry now? Since when?’

‘No,’ said Ciel. Whispery. Which wasn’t a proper answer.

‘I think he’s just a bit quiet today,’ said Sebastian, in his warm accent that could have been Boston and could have been BBC and was a hundred percent pissing Vincent off right now, and Ciel was just looking down at his sneakers. 

‘Alright,’ said Vincent. ‘If you want an _aspirin_ or something--’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. ‘He’ll be fine. It’s just a little tummy-ache, I think.’

And Ciel looked at Sebastian, a proper shitty-eyed look like he was about to throw his can of lemonade in the man’s face, and Vincent felt his own stomach bubble like the low-carb beer was just hitting it now. Sun-warmed. Sickening.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Inside.’

‘What?’ His kid was frowning at him.

‘ _Inside_. If you’re not feeling well. Put down that sugary shit and come and have a drink of water.’

Vincent grabbed Ciel’s wrist and pulled him back towards the house, a harder tug than he’d meant to but the boy was being a prick _\--_ and worse, he was making his father look like one.

The little wrist was frail as bird-bones in his grip.

The boy made a noise, a choking noise, and Vincent stopped short and found his son puking on the lawn, a sputter of watery lemonade vomited across the grass.

‘Shit,’ he said. Flatly. He didn’t let go of Ciel’s limp wrist. The kid wiped his trembling mouth with the back of his other hand, eyes half closed, and somebody, some woman was yelling out behind them from the barbecue. 

‘Oh, _honey_! Get him into the bathroom.’

Felicity, fuck her and her stupid hair, Felicity was leaning around the kitchen doorway. ‘Second on the left, hun. Oh, does he want a shower? Cody’ll have a spare sweater if you need some clothes to--’

‘Yes,’ said Vincent, because he had to say something, but he didn’t stop walking as he pushed inside.

He stopped in the bland expensive hallway. It wasn’t his house. He didn’t know where the hell things were supposed to be. He didn’t look down at his boy’s sour wet mouth. And he felt Ciel half-stumble to keep up at his side as he pulled him down the hallway, second on the left, and into the cold clean white-tiled expanse of somebody else’s familiar clutter. 

And closed the bathroom door behind them. And locked it. 

Took the half-empty can of lemonade from Ciel’s sticky hands and put it beside the sink, and the boy rubbed his hands on his t-shirt with a slow frown.

‘I’m not sick,’ Ciel said. ‘I’m fine.’ Tilting up his chin. The sullen thirteen-year-old stare, and his t-shirt still stinking of vomit, and Vincent blinked down at him. 

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

No answer. Ciel leaned back against the sink.

Vincent grunted in disgust and turned to the shower cubicle. Set the taps running, checking the temperature as the hiss of water slowly warmed. He looked back over his shoulder at his son. 

‘What happened to your leg?’

‘What?’ 

‘This.’ Vincent turned, and bent to touch his fingertips to the long scratch down the boy’s bare thigh. 

Ciel stood very still. ‘Nothing. Branch, I s’pose.’ He was looking away at the frosted-glass window, but he was breathing hard. Vincent could hear it. See it, the quick little breaths of his skinny chest.

‘And this?’ Vincent saw the edge of it first, the marks under the soft blue t-shirt, and raised the hem slowly. The bruising wasn’t even dark yet, just a ripe red colour, long finger marks across his boy’s heaving rib-cage. 

‘Nothing.’ Ciel closed his eyes. 

Vincent knelt down, holding up the t-shirt, and he was level with the bruises. With his son’s kitten nipples, sharp and pink and shadowed with splotched purple. Marked. Bitten, and Vincent pulled the t-shirt down again. He looked up at Ciel’s closed white face.

‘What,’ he said, ‘the _fuck_ is this?’

‘Nothing,’ said Ciel, again, and he opened his blue eyes wide and wet and fluttering. Faltering. 

‘Where were you? When I was looking for you?’

‘Garage.’ Concrete scuffs, raw on his bare knees.

‘With who?’

‘Mhhm,’ said Ciel. His little pink mouth was pressed closed. His chin was crumpling. ‘Nobody.’

Vincent spun his kid around and tugged at the denim shorts. They were buttoned high and tight and he reached around the boy’s hips, fumbling at them, and Ciel held on to the edge of the sink and said nothing as his father got the buttons undone and dragged the shorts down. 

Vincent sat back on his heels. 

The kid was wearing a g-string, a tiny pale blue lacy thing. Where the fuck had he gotten something like that? And his skin. The whole swell of his soft rump was bruised, red with thumb-prints and bitten purple, marked with teeth and fingers and scratched until the blood showed across the pale pebbling skin.

It couldn't be. Vincent would have noticed this.

Except he hadn't. He never saw his kid undressed. He hadn't seen anything.

Vincent reached out his hand, and his hand was shaking. He touched his son’s bare body lightly. Pressing in his fingertips.

‘This,’ he said. He could hear his own voice thick with disgust. ‘This wasn’t one time.’

Ciel said nothing, leaning on the edge of the bathroom bench. 

‘Who?’ But Vincent was already breathing hard, already trying to swallow the sour heat that built in his throat. That look Ciel had given Sebastian, sharp as a bite. His father’s friend. ‘Really?’ Vincent knelt up close against his boy’s back, and heard the squeak as Ciel was pushed into the edge of the sink. 

He was close at his son’s ear, at the twinkling blue stud and the soft hair, still matted with sweat from-- from what, from that? ‘You didn’t,’ he said. Harshly. ‘ _Sebastian_. You let him do this to you?’

Ciel was shaking, his narrow back against the press of Vincent’s body. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t. I _didn’t._ ’ 

Vincent wanted to slap him. It was insane. The boy was going to deny it even with his shorts around his ankles. ‘I can see it,’ he said, and he leaned in close to Ciel’s white neck. ‘Christ, I can _smell_ it--’ And his son’s skin was heavy with it, across his t-shirt, down his shoulder and his back, musty and salty, sex and spilt lemonade. Vincent knelt back, looking at the tremble of the boy’s bare rump, at the strap of blue lace that disappeared down between the round bruised buttocks.

‘Come here,’ he said, and he had to clear his throat. His chest was hot.

He pulled Ciel by the hips and the boy was stumbling over the puddled denim shorts, swung to the edge of the bathtub and bashing his knees against it. ‘ _Here_ ,’ sharply, and Vincent shoved at his son’s shoulders, bending the boy over. Ciel was gripping the bath’s edge, hanging his head between his skinny arms, and Vincent crouched down behind him on the cold tiles. 

He ran his finger down the line of pale blue panties and heard his son make a muffled noise. It burned through Vincent’s whole body. His throat. His hands.

He tucked his fingertip under the strap of lace. The fabric was wet. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Did you let him in here?’ 

The boy didn’t say anything. Vincent didn’t expect him to. 

He pulled the blue lace aside with his fingertip and pressed the scratched-up ass-cheeks apart and he was shaking, he was blinking away the prickle in his eyelids at the sight of the swollen little red hole, stained and puff-lipped, twitching as his son pressed his skinny thighs together.

‘You’re going to lie?’ Vincent couldn’t look away from the bruise-dark pucker. He was trying to breathe. Trying not to move, trying not to notice the flaring heat between his legs. Because that wasn't the right reaction. ‘You’re going to tell me you didn’t let him fuck you.’

‘ _No._ ’ Ciel made a long wailing sound between his teeth, his head hung low. ‘I didn’t _let_ him. I told him to, I told him to--’ His little hole tightened. A glisten of pink.

Vincent made a sound, a low sound in his chest. ‘Do you like it?’

Ciel whimpered. 

Vincent slapped his palm hard across the shivering rump and the boy flinched. ‘Do you _like_ it when he’s inside you?’

Ciel’s grip was white-knuckled on the bath’s rim. ‘Mhm--’ He turned his bent head, looked down between his arms at Vincent. His little pink mouth was gathered up. His dark lashes were wet. ‘Yes. _Yes_. I wanted him to, I’m _sorry_ \--’ He gasped. 

Vincent felt the slow flip in his chest. Pumping like his blood. He shouldn't have hit the kid. But this bruised-up bare ass. He wasn't the first.

‘Hell,’ said Vincent. 

He pressed the tip of his thumb to the pulsing pucker beside the pulled-aside blue lace. And pushed his thumb in, and it was still wet inside. A squelch, a hot slip in the softness of his boy’s hole, and Ciel squealed. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ \--’

‘Why?’ Vincent sank his thumb in up to the knuckle and closed his eyes. He felt the quiver close around it as his boy clenched wildly. ‘Why the fuck would you let him?’ 

‘He kissed me.’ Ciel’s voice was a babble, muffled as he pressed his chin against his chest. High, panicky. ‘He kissed me and I wanted him to, I’m _sorry_ \--’

The boy’s words were a sickness now, creeping through him. It was too much to know. But Vincent wasn’t finished. He wanted to know. Everything. Everything. 

He hooked his thumb inside the boy’s wet sheath. 

‘When?’ He opened his eyes, looking at the raw flesh of the rim beneath his hand. The bruises on the boy’s body were all colours; pale yellow; deep purple. ‘This wasn’t once. How long have you been doing this?’ 

‘I don’t know, since summer, it hurts, _please_ \--’

Months. Ciel had been letting the man fuck him for months, _him_ , his father’s friend, and the thought of Sebastian riding this soft little body was too much. The image of it. His boy pinned down under those hands. Held open, bitten. Noisy. Thrashed. _It hurts._ Vincent gritted his teeth. _Of course it hurts, you stupid slut, he fucked you raw._ It surged in his guts and he moved his thumb, hard in the wet hole, and a dribble of heat squeezed out of the boy’s shivering pucker. Another man’s cum still hot inside his son.

And Ciel’s shaky knees were bumping together, he was bouncing on his toes, trying not to move against the thumb pushed inside him. 

‘Do you suck him off?’

‘Yesssss.’ A moan.

‘Do you swallow it?’

‘ _Yes_. I’m so sorry, I won’t do it anymore--’

Vincent curled his fingers between his boy’s legs. He felt over the lace panties, found the soft pillow of his son’s little cock and pushed his fingertips against the plumpness, cupping him, piercing him with one hand. The boy moved against it, rubbing at his touch, and Vincent saw the shift of the panties against his hand. 

He groaned. ‘You,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You take everything. You’re a slut. You know that?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy, ‘yes, yes,’ and there was something too rhythmic about his gasping little voice. Vincent swallowed at the bitter taste in his mouth. At the stiffness straining inside his jeans.

‘Does he call you that?’

 _'Yes_.’ Ciel pushed back against Vincent’s curling hand. ‘Please. _Hnh_. I’m so sorry--’

‘Stop fucking saying that. What else does he call you?’

‘Baby. He calls me _baby_. He says-- _unh_ \-- I cry too much, but he likes it--’

‘Fucker.’ Vincent knelt up close, breathless, and slid his hand around Ciel’s bony chest. Under his t-shirt and up the bump of ribs to his boy’s gasping throat and he squeezed his hand around it. His other hand clenched against the little cock, thumb within the shivering asshole. Ciel wheezed, choked. Tightened. ‘What else? What else, you hopeless slut?’

‘He says, he says my cunt’s better than a girl’s--’

Vincent breathed. And again. And felt the fluttering clench of the little body. And the heat in his own.

‘Does he make you say his name?’ He would, the arrogant prick. He'd _love_ the sound of that, his own name on that hot pink tongue, he’d probably make his little whore call him by his surname. _Please, Mr Michaelis, sir--_

‘N-no.’ Ciel was gasping. ‘No. No. I call him-- please--’ It was a heaving whisper. ‘Daddy. I call him _daddy_.’

Vincent watched the clenching fingers on the edge of the bath. The chipped nail-polish, sugar-pink. ‘Do you?’ he asked. ‘Do you, now?’ And he let go of Ciel’s throat and pulled his thumb away and heard the gasping, too, as his son breathed rough and deep, and he began to unzip his jeans. 

Ciel’s naked little legs were wobbly and the boy was sinking down onto his knees. Vincent pulled him into place firmly. Propped him against the bath-edge again. 

‘Hold tight,’ he said, and it was almost kind. He hooked his fingers under the boy’s blue lace panties and pulled them, snagged, dragging, down to the little knees. And finished unzipping himself, flopped his achey cock out of his jeans and slid the ugly head of it down the trembling cleft of his boy’s cheeks.

‘Please,’ said Ciel. He was shaking feverishly. ‘Please, please--’

‘What?’ Vincent held his boy by the hips, digging in his fingertips. Fitting them to the curve of Ciel’s waist. To the bruises his friend had left. ‘What is it you want? You’re going to beg for it?’

‘No, it hurts--’

‘Oh,’ said Vincent. He bent his head to the flushed little neck. ‘You’ve had enough. Sebastian was enough for you. First you’re trying to fuck yourself on my hand and now you don’t want it any more?’

Ciel moaned. Loud enough to hear over the rush of the running shower. ‘Please, daddy--’

‘Yes,’ said Vincent. He pressed his cock-head into the gathered flinch of his boy’s little hole. ‘Say it. _Say_ it.’ And he eased himself inside, feeling the stretch, the wet, and Ciel was bucking against him. ‘Poor baby,’ Vincent said. ‘Have you changed your mind? You said you liked this.’ 

He grunted and kneed the kid forwards. Ciel scrabbled, slipped, was pressed up to the tiled outside of the bath, his soft little cock ground up against the cold porcelain. Pinned between the tiles and his daddy’s hips as Vincent began to fuck him.

It was good. Good. Slim and hot as his own fist. Hotter than he could have dreamed, too tight. Fitting the plunge of his cock, and he shoved, and he shoved, gripping the bony hips. How many times had Sebastian been in here? Shaking in the heat of his little boy’s body, feeling the tender flesh squeeze him. 

‘Daddy,’ said Ciel, ‘please, _daddy_ ,’ and his soft head strained back against Vincent’s chest. Chin tilted up, his eyelids bruise-blue and his lips apart. Panting, wide-mouthed. Already beginning to sob. 

‘Don’t cry,’ said Vincent shortly. ‘It isn’t cute.’ But his boy’s wet eyes and jumpy raggedy breaths made him want to bite things and he pushed Ciel’s head away from him and held it, held the boy’s neck bent low across the side of the bath as he rocked into the wet little hole. 

‘Daddy…’ The voice was a slow wail. ‘Daddy, _unh_ , daddy…’

Vincent hissed. ‘Shut that. They’ll hear you.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘They’ll _hear_ you, calling for your daddy’s cock. Ah--’ He slid his hand from the back of Ciel’s slim neck and up to grip his son’s hair. The boy’s legs were pressed wide against the side of the bath and his little tummy was folded over it as Vincent grunted. The boy’s moans were becoming gasps. ‘Enough? _Enough_?’

Ciel didn’t answer, only gurgled. 

Vincent pulled out sharply, left the little asshole twitching open and caught the boy by the waist. ‘Come here,’ he said, and Ciel slumped back onto his lap, his arms limp. ‘Enough?’

Ciel looked up at him, his mouth trembling red. ‘You _hurt_ me.’ He was crying. And it wasn’t cute, with his nose bubbling snot and his eyes smudged blush-pink and his chin still wet with his own drool. Shaking with sobs, his bony chest, and his nipples sharp through the cheap blue piece-of-shit t-shirt. His bare little cock bobbing red as his mouth. Hard as his daddy’s. 

Vincent swallowed. ‘Baby,’ he said. A whisper, and it burned his mouth. ‘You are. Baby.’

Ciel sniffled, his head lolling heavy against the crook of Vincent’s arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and he was looking up with his big wet eyes.

Vincent bent his head, smelling the sour panting mouth. Licked at the slippery chin, and the boy made a noise like a broken doll, a rising moan, and Vincent kissed him. Pushed his tongue into the sharp sick heat of Ciel’s mouth and felt the baby whimper under him. Felt his boy’s lips sucking back at his, the little wet tongue soft and hungry. 

He grunted and rolled his hips, up against the boy sitting sideways over his knees. Ciel was holding onto his shirt now, twining his sticky hands in it as he tilted up his stained face for his daddy’s kisses. Vincent pushed his tongue in deeper, straining. If he pushed it far enough he might find a part of his boy that didn’t taste of Sebastian. Harder. Deeper. The slippery roof of the hot mouth, and Ciel choked.

Vincent pulled the boy upright and settled the legs over his lap, wide, splayed, pulled the heaving chest close against his and held the little body still as he reached around and worked his cock back into his boy’s hole.

Ciel was crumpling already, wincing. ‘Hnn, _hah_ , it _stings_ , daddy--’

Vincent breathed through his teeth. Hot, tight. Melting. ‘You should have thought of that before you spread your baby cunt for a grown man. Now. Move.’

Ciel leaned forwards, his head bumping at Vincent’s shoulder. ‘I can’t, I can’t, please--’

‘Show me,’ Vincent said. ‘ _Show_ me how you want it.’

Ciel held tight to Vincent’s shirt, his skinny thighs trembling. ‘I’m tired,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to.’ 

Vincent pressed the boy’s head against his chest and slid his hand under Ciel’s t-shirt. Up the bony spine, the damp warm back, and he dug in his fingers sharply. ‘I want you to.’ He held the little body still and bucked up into it. ‘I want to watch my baby bounce.’

‘Daddy, I’m _sorry_ \--’

‘Are you?’ Vincent pressed his mouth to his son’s ear. He was breathing hard and quick. ‘Sorry you fucked him or sorry I found out?’

‘’m _sorry_!’ 

‘But you liked it.’

‘Daddy--’ 

‘You _like_ the feel of his cock inside you.’

‘Daddy--’

‘Better than mine?’

He waited, and his boy’s frantic little hole was squeezing him as Ciel clenched, shuddered, clenched. Vincent felt the shaking sobs and the hot mouth panting, pressed into his chest. 

‘Daddy--’ The voice was muffled in his shirt. His son’s hands clung to him. ‘I like yours. I like _yours._ Please, please--’

Vincent bent, shuffling Ciel’s trembling body back and down and laid him out on the cold tiled floor, and here, he wanted to thrust now, _here_ in the soft wet cleft of him. The boy was panicked, tight. Vincent could hardly move inside him.

‘ _Do_ you, baby?’ 

‘Nhn. _Hha_ , yes--’

‘Did you want it? If you told me--’ Vincent bent close to his boy’s wide-eyed flushed face, puke-wet pink mouth and trembling chin-- ‘if you _told_ me you wanted to fuck. You could have asked me. If you wanted your daddy to take care of you.’ 

Ciel hiccuped, a grizzling sob. 

‘Will you?’

‘Daddy--’

‘Will you ask me when you need it?’

‘Yes.’ Breath. ‘Yes.’ Breath. ‘-- promise--’ Breath. ‘ _Please_ \--’

‘Good,’ said Vincent, ‘good boy. And you can take it, too. When I need it.’

He rolled his kid’s hips up.

And Ciel squealed, high, and Vincent pushed the boy’s stained t-shirt up and into the gaping mouth. Pressed it in. ‘They’ll hear you. They’ll hear you taking your daddy like a little honey.’ He held his boy’s knees tight-tucked and spread. Watching himself move inside. Watching the crumpled sack, the bounce of the shiny pink prick. ‘Quiet, now. Take it quiet for me.’

Ciel was nodding, his eyes squeezing tears, grunting through the teeth he’d clenched on his t-shirt. ‘ _Hnnn_ \--’

‘Good,’ Vincent said, when he felt the little hole relax. ‘All the way in. Come on.’

And it was almost silent in the bathroom for a while, with the gush of the shower still running, and Ciel muffled in his t-shirt, and Vincent keeping his deep breaths steady as he moved slick, stiff, listening to his boy’s stifled sobbing and the click, click of his cock in the wet.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good boy.’

Ciel squeezed.

And Vincent came with a grunt, pressing deep inside, and watched the boy arch, flopping like a beached fish, fucking himself against his daddy’s slow-softening cock.

Pulled out, and saw his boy’s hole shivering closed, bruise-purple.

Ciel’s eyes were rolling half-shut. Vincent pulled the kid’s t-shirt away and watched the little pink tongue slide out of his boy's wet mouth.

‘You,’ he said quietly. ‘ _Hungry_ baby. Enough?’

Ciel’s mouth trembled. ‘Yeah,’ he whispered. 

Vincent was cruel, though. He didn’t touch the hot little prick, not even once. Ciel was done, wasn’t he? He’d had _enough_. 

Vincent didn’t let his baby come. 

He zipped up his own jeans and knelt there for a while, breathing. Looking. At the blinking blue eyes. The bruised spread legs, and the slow pulse of his boy’s glossy upright cock, raspberry red.

The shower gushed, waiting.

‘Up, now,’ Vincent said. 

He tugged off Ciel’s stained shirt. Pulled him to his feet and steered him to the steaming shower and watched as the boy folded again, just knelt there, head flopping in the hiss of steaming water.

‘Tired, baby?’ 

The boy didn’t answer.

And Vincent reached in, got his arms wet and his jeans splashed leaning in to rub the snot from his boy’s slippery face, and rub his hair, and push his fingers between the boy’s shaky legs and back up his dribbling hole to clean him out. It was soft in there, now. Open.

And when he finally turned off the taps it was silent in the fogged-up bathroom and Ciel didn’t move, only breathed small and gaspy, flopped in the shower cubicle, his little prick still showing stiff between his spread knees.

‘Come on, now.’ Vincent pulled him out.

Ciel still looked sick, even clean and fresh and dried. His eyes were shadowy purple.

Vincent guided him, tugging the slutty denim shorts back on, tight over the swollen little cock. Zipping up the jacket, too big, his daddy’s jacket over his bare little bitten nipples. The t-shirt went in the jacket pocket.

Vincent looked at the blue lace panties on the floor and bent to pick them up. Put them in his own pocket. In his jeans.

‘Hey. Come on.’ He grabbed his boy’s limp little fingers. And out, out into the hallway and towards the front door. They weren't going near the backyard. Not that Sebastian would be there, anyway, not anywhere. The smug fucker would be smart enough to leave while he could. He’d gotten what he wanted, anyway; Ciel on his knees, taking it in Felicity’s sister’s garage. 

Felicity’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Okay, you two?’

‘Fine,’ said Vincent, over his shoulder. ‘Thanks. He’s feeling a bit better.’

‘Good to hear,’ said Felicity, but Vincent was closing the front door already.

Ciel was quiet and obedient as Vincent buckled him into the front seat of the car, his eyes wide and exhausted. Vincent stopped before he closed the door. Bent and touched Ciel’s pointed chin, the corner of his soft pink mouth. 

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You _are_ tired, aren’t you?’

Ciel nodded, his head lolling back against the car-seat. A shuddering breath. ‘I wanna go to bed.’

‘Yeah?’ Vincent pressed his fingertip at the plump little lower lip. ‘Whatever you want. You want some ice cream first?’

‘Yeah.’ Ciel put out his tongue, licked at Vincent’s finger, and looked up at him half-sleepy. ‘Chocolate fudge.’

‘Whatever you want.’ Vincent heard his own breath, slow. ‘You want to sleep in daddy’s bed tonight?’

Ciel’s lashes fluttered. Dropped. And he looked up again. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘’kay.’

‘Okay.’ Vincent touched his boy’s soft cheek. Lightly. He swallowed.

And then he stopped. 

It was parked up the street, just past one of the navy-blue SUVs that lined the whole neighbourhood-- he’d know it anywhere, the smug black little car. A TVR Chimaera. Smooth-edged. British.

‘Stay here, now. One minute,’ Vincent said. He closed the car door. 

And he almost stumbled on the curb as he stepped up again, crossing the front lawn, down the gravel path between the grey brick house and the high fence. Back towards the sound of splashes and kids shouting. Looking for his friend. Looking for the arrogant fuck.

He was there. He was still there, watching people come and go, leaning against the corner of the house with his fucking Heineken in his hand like it was a fucking glass of whiskey.

‘Hey,’ said Vincent. Breathing, breathing. His hands were tucked tight at his sides. 

Sebastian turned his head. ‘Hey,’ he said. And he tilted his head. ‘How’s the kid doing?’ Serious. Concerned. His eyes were liquid brown.

‘Yeah,’ said Vincent, and he shrugged. Reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled it out, the scrap of wet lace, cloudy-blue. ‘Here.’ 

Sebastian put out his hand slowly, his eyebrows arching in a bored version of polite curiosity, and took it. ‘Oh?’

A question.

‘Get yourself another slut,’ said Vincent. ‘This one’s mine.’

And he waited, just long enough to watch Sebastian understand. The fierce ignition of the fucker’s eyes. 

And then Vincent left.

Back to his car, and his baby waiting.


	2. Chocolate Ice cream

It was barely five o’clock in the morning when somebody next door ran into their trash cans. On a Sunday, too; but Vincent hadn’t been asleep. It didn’t matter.

He moved his shoulders slowly against the pillow. He didn’t need to open his eyes. He could hear it, Ciel’s snuffle of breath on his right.

Of all the fucking stupid ideas.

Sleeping in his _bed._ He shouldn’t have said it. But he had. He’d have said anything yesterday to get that look out of his kid’s eyes. 

Vincent settled his arm across his face.

He’d given Ciel the ice cream for dinner. Chocolate fudge ice cream. And seen Ciel’s face blur with tiredness at the kitchen table. He’d dunked the kid back through the shower again, trying not to look at the scratched-up baby body. Watched him slowly dry his soft hair afterwards, leaning against the sink for balance. 

And Ciel had stood in the bathroom doorway, his fresh pajamas still hot from the dryer, twisting his hands in the hem of his t-shirt. 

‘Daddy.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Did you mean it? About sleeping in your bed?’

Vincent had looked at him. ‘If you want,’ he’d said, easily, as though it wasn’t sticking in his throat. 

And Ciel had done it. He’d taken his own pillow in to the master bedroom like it was a fucking sleepover, and climbed under the blankets, and was asleep before Vincent had even finished picking up the clothes in the bathroom. 

Vincent hadn’t gone to bed for a long time. 

The sink full of dishes, first. And the clean laundry, he’d folded all of it, even though they usually just dumped everything in the spare room and rifled through it later. And then he’d eaten something, mechanically, because it was too early to sleep; not even nine pm. The kid must have been tired. 

And then Vincent had a drink, because he was determined not to think. And he watched a movie. And another. It was Saturday night. And another drink, the last of the Irish whiskey Sebastian had bought him for his birthday. 

And then it was two in the morning and he went to bed, because it had to happen sometime.

Ciel was asleep when Vincent stood at the foot of the bed and looked; aslant over to the right, to Vincent’s side, with his kitten mouth half-open. He looked soft, untouched, until Vincent raised the covers and looked down at the legs flopped apart, the raw knees pink against the white sheets. 

The rise and feel of Ciel’s chest beneath his t-shirt. 

Vincent had leaned over and pushed the little legs over slowly. Skinny in their cotton boxers. And Vincent got into bed, and turned his back to the sleeping kid, and tried to sleep. But he knew he wouldn’t. 

He should have gone to the spare room, or even down to the couch. But he knew he wouldn’t do that, either. He’d done something stupid. So stupid, and maybe this was a kind of punishment.

Ciel slept soundly. He hardly stirred all night.

Vincent got up twice. Once for a glass of water and a piss. And once to vomit in the bathroom sink. He didn’t even make it to the toilet. 

And he ran the tap and closed his eyes and there are things, he thought. There are things you can almost twist to make a kind of sense, until it’s three am and you’re the only one alive.

There were things he could blame it on. The way Ciel had just _looked_ at him yesterday, standing beside the swings. And he’d lied about Sebastian. About everything. 

Sebastian. If it had been anyone else, literally anybody. Vincent’s head buzzed as he got back into bed. But it was Sebastian, of course. 

Vincent knew the guy better than anyone. Twelve years of waiting for his best friend to screw his wife but no, the asshole had gone for Ciel instead. 

Anybody would be angry over that _._

But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t help. Vincent knew it. He'd been angry, but shit, angry is grounding the kid-- maybe hiding his phone on top of the fridge for a week. _Angry_ isn’t fucking him on somebody’s bathroom floor.

And Vincent rolled over onto his back, carefully, like his spine might snap. But it wasn’t his back. It didn’t hurt. It only felt like everything was a breath away from breaking. 

And if he could sleep, he might manage to get his head straight.

He couldn’t sleep.

Rachel would have known how to deal with this. But it wouldn’t have happened in the first place. Ciel had been happy then. Two years ago. Two and a half, and it had been a different house; she used to sing in the kitchen. And the boys, shit, playing on the carpet with their heads together over a mess of Lego. Vincent had never imagined it all. So easily, high speed and low light and a dark bridge. And Ciel had lost his brother, and now he had nobody. 

Vincent used to find them in bed together, the twins, even though they’d begged for bunks. Ciel would slink up the ladder once their lights were out and they’d be tucked up in there all night, out of reach. Rachel always thought it was cute. Vincent had been vaguely annoyed. It was like they never needed anyone else, like they didn’t even need their parents at all. Not even when they were scared or had a bad dream; they only wanted each other.

But Vincent had been glad there were two of them. Ciel wasn’t born to be an only child. The kid couldn’t stand to be alone; he turned on music in every room he went into.

And now he had nobody.

Vincent rubbed his gritty eyes.

Maybe he should have brought Ciel in here sometimes. Let him in the room, in the bed. If the kid was lonely.

And he must be lonely, to go to Sebastian. 

Maybe if Vincent had let him in here, asked him more questions. Watched him more closely-- but he _had_. He’d watched as Ciel quit his soccer team and wanted his ears pierced and started spending his pocket money on clothes instead of candy.

And there was nothing wrong with watching; it was Vincent’s job. Keeping an eye on the kid. He’d been giving Ciel space. Maybe if he hadn’t, if he’d held him closer. Let him sleep in his daddy’s bed sometimes. Been a little softer on him. Like this.

But that wasn’t what was happening here, and Vincent’s throat still stung with acid.

It was lighter between the gap in the blackout curtains. He could see the shape of Ciel’s cheek, now, above the covers. The wisps of his hair. Vincent wanted to wake the kid up and tell him how sorry he was. But it was early, and Ciel was sound asleep. And Vincent was almost afraid to touch him.

He raised himself on his elbow. Brushed the hair away from Ciel’s closed eyes, and ran his thumb lightly down the arch of the soft-tipped nose. Ciel stirred. And opened his eyes.

Wide, startled, and Vincent didn’t want his kid looking up at him with a face like that.

He bent his head and nuzzled softly at the warm little chest. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ said Ciel. A croaky whisper. He put his hand up, touched Vincent’s shoulder. And withdrew it again, and Vincent lay back on his own pillow slowly. 

‘Sleep well?’

‘Yeah.’

And it had been a _fucking_ stupid idea. He’d had some awkward mornings. But shit. This. The tiredness in Ciel’s face.

Vincent closed his eyes. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m not angry anymore.’

Silence. 

‘I was just surprised, you know?’

Silence.

And Vincent was out of words. Surprised, yeah. Nobody tells you how to deal with finding out your kid has been banging your best friend.

He put out his hand under the covers, and found Ciel’s pointed elbow, and cupped it lightly. 

‘Anyway,’ Vincent said. ‘I’m not angry with you. Only him.’ He didn’t need to say the fucker’s name.

The covers rustled and the elbow pulled out of his hand. He thought Ciel was getting up. Getting out. But the rumpled head rolled over on the pillow, and Vincent felt the hot little body shuffle against him.

He lay very still. And Ciel’s head ground into his shoulder and Vincent shifted it, carefully, and let it settle up on his arm.

He breathed in the apple scent of Ciel’s hair. ‘Okay?’

The kid’s voice was almost too quiet to hear. ‘Sorry, daddy.’

‘Hey.’ It was thumping through his chest. ‘Hey. You don’t have to be sorry. You said sorry already.’

And it hadn’t been enough. It had only made things worse. Ciel had said he was sorry yesterday, he’d been crying, and it hadn’t worked. It had only made Vincent angrier. Only made him push the kid harder. That sobbing. And the shiver of his tight little body had been a buzz in Vincent’s head. 

He could still feel it; his skin still buzzed. His legs, his cock.

Of course he never wanted to hurt the kid.

Vincent put his hand on Ciel’s back. He rubbed it gently. Gently down his back, feeling the bones of his spine. Delicate, barely fleshed, his little body.

Vincent couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged him. It hadn’t always been this way; after the funeral Ciel had been his little shadow, sitting up on his lap at the dinner table. Holding his hand on the walk home from school, and that’s why Vincent had started working from home in the first place-- to be here. To be waiting if Ciel needed him.

And this year it had gone to shit, and Ciel had dropped soccer and started coming home late from school. And where he _went_ every afternoon--

Vincent closed his eyes.

They were quiet for a while. 

Vincent’s shoulder was stiff. He wasn’t used to this, the weight of another body on him. His shoulder was always stiff. Seven hours at a desk. He’d have to get to the gym this afternoon. Or go for a run, maybe; Sebastian would be up for that. And Vincent frowned, his eyes closed. Felt it flood through him again. Cold remembrance and the anger he didn’t even have words for yet. 

He should never have turned it on his kid, though.

He bit the inside of his cheek. It was easier to say it like this, without those blue eyes watching him.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I hurt you yesterday, didn’t I?’

Ciel didn’t answer. Vincent felt him tense against his chest.

‘I shouldn’t have,’ Vincent said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

Ciel moved, just his head. His chin burrowed closer. ‘I know,’ he said. That was all. 

There was no way, Vincent knew it. No way he could hurt his baby again. If he was a better person he would never have done it at all. 

Those bruises, though. What had Sebastian done to him?

‘Ciel. Hey, honey--’

But Ciel was quiet. He’d fallen asleep again. Heavy on his father’s chest.

And Vincent’s throat was tight and hot. Stupid. So stupid. Did the kid have no instincts at all?

He didn’t move his hand from Ciel’s back. He felt the quiet breaths, and he lay still. His shoulder was aching, fuck it, but he lay still. He held his son. Until the burn in his neck made him wince, and he eased Ciel’s weight off him and down onto the pillow. A soft flop and a shiver. 

And then Vincent sat on the edge of the bed. 

And stood up, stiffly, and went and had a shower. And he leaned one hand against the tiles in the steaming water while he jerked off to the memory of the kid’s moaning. Full of Vincent’s cock.

_Ah. Ah, daddy-_

And Vincent dressed himself, guiltless, because compared to yesterday that wasn’t even a sin. 

*************

Ciel didn’t get up until late. Vincent was already making himself lunch when he heard the flap of bare feet on the hardwood kitchen floor behind him. He didn’t turn around.

‘I’m making a BLT. You want one?’

‘I guess.’

‘Is that a yes? I don’t want to get the tomatoes out again.’

‘I guess. Yeah.’ 

Ciel was at the fridge, drinking OJ straight from the carton.

‘Shit. Ciel. Get a glass.’

‘Mhm,’ said Ciel around the carton lip. It could have meant anything. He put the juice back and went over to the sink. Lightly. Almost on tiptoe, and Vincent realised the kid must still be sore.

And it would be so much easier if he knew what he was supposed to say. 

He said nothing at all while he fried the bacon. 

Ciel wasn’t looking at him; he ate two cookies, standing at the sink. Dropping crumbs over it. And then flopped down on his chair at the kitchen table, cheek propped on his fist, bent over his phone.

‘Here,’ said Vincent, pushing the plate across the table to him. And the glass.

‘Thanks,’ said Ciel. 

Vincent didn’t want to say anything at all. Nothing else. But there were some things that needed to be said.

‘Sebastian won’t be coming over here any more.’

Ciel’s chewing slowed. But he didn’t stop. And he drank half his orange juice in one long slurp, and put the glass down again. ‘Okay.’ He didn't look up.

And that was it.

It was just like any other Sunday afternoon, then. Ciel commandeered the couch, turned on the TV, and left it blaring while he watched something on his laptop.

And Vincent could hear it from his desk in the corner of the spare room, where he sat chewing on his thumbnail while he tried to finish the project he should have done last week. He didn’t even want to do it. Four years on a Fine Arts degree to end up designing brochures for a natural history museum. Why _hadn’t_ he done this last week?

But Ciel had been home late every afternoon, and Vincent had wasted every afternoon with half an eye on the time. Checking his phone. Which was pointless because the kid never called him, never told him anything.

Vincent rubbed his eyes tiredly. He wanted to ask Ciel. He didn’t know how to. 

He picked up his phone, instead; and if he was ten years younger he’d just send a text. That’s what kids do when they’re too scared to speak. But words on a screen aren’t the same as a voice in your ear, so Vincent rang. 

He only had three numbers on speed dial: work, and the Mexican place on West 90th, and his best friend.

Sebastian didn’t pick up. He never did: he expected people to leave a message and if you were lucky, he’d call you back the next day. His recorded message was short, the same one he’d had for eight years. 

_Hello_ , it said. _I’m busy. Clearly. You know what to do._ And a good few seconds of silence before the beep.

‘Yeah,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s me. I know you’re not stupid enough to try and see my kid again. Or call. Or come anywhere near us. But I thought I should say it anyway because obviously you _are_ that fucking stupid.’

He hung up, and his hands were cold. 

He pictured Sebastian picking up the phone. Checking the message. Sunday afternoon he’d be at home, his apartment at Northeast: a view of Hennepin Bridge, and still as empty as the day he’d moved in; sofa, bed, dining table, and an ostentatiously blank wall around the single painting hanging on it. Like he was still some poor student, like university wasn’t a distant memory for both of them.

It had been a few months since Vincent had been over the river to his place. But Sebastian had been over here a lot this summer. Every weekend. He’d found a lot of free time for a man with a _very_ full schedule. Everybody liked Sebastian. Vincent was used to that. It had been a long time since it had bothered him.

Even Ciel, who usually stayed up in his bedroom, who was bored with adults-- he’d come down, too. And sat there. And listened. 

Vincent turned back to his computer. How much had he missed?

He’d let himself be fooled like a fucking idiot. He’d have to think of something suitable for Sebastian. He’d think of something.

But Ciel. He wasn’t angry with the kid. He couldn’t let himself get angry. He could deal with himself; this had never been a problem before. It wasn’t like he’d ever looked at Ciel like _that_ , no matter how the kid dressed, or how close he leaned over Vincent’s arm to show him something on his phone. 

He wasn’t a fucking pervert.

It was just _that._ One time. He didn’t want to think. 

He needed to get laid. 

And Vincent rubbed his eyes again, and switched off the office light, and made them both some dinner. 

*************

He waited until after they’d eaten. It was spaghetti-- no carrot because Ciel hated carrots, but some parsley, because the kid had to learn to eat green stuff eventually-- and he waited until the kid was tucked up on the couch again with the ice cream tub between his knees. 

Vincent watched him for a while, the tuck of his bare knees and his blue checkered pajama shorts, and the spoon dangling from his lips as he scrolled through his phone. The TV roared, ignored.

‘Ciel.’

‘Hm.’ The kid didn’t look around. 

‘Turn that down. Hey. You listening?’

Ciel turned it down. Took another bite of ice cream. And raised his head, impatient.

‘School tomorrow.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Agreement. Ciel licked his bottom lip.

‘You come straight home after. Okay? I expect you back here by half-past three.’ And Mondays Vincent worked from home so he could check on it, too.

‘Okay.’ Ciel was looking at his phone again.

‘I’m serious. if you’re not here I’ll be calling you. And calling the school.’

‘O _kay_.’ The kid’s voice was getting bitchy.

‘Hey.’ And he saw Ciel’s chin twist up, annoyed, and Vincent knew that face as well as he knew his own reflection. ‘ _Hey_. I’m just trying to keep an eye on you.’

‘Okay,’ said Ciel coolly. ‘I’ll be here.’

Vincent went back and started the dishwasher. Wiped down the benches. And sat out on the back deck, listening to the traffic way over on the highway. The Vikings were playing, all the roads would still be busy. 

It was cold already. October.

He finished his beer and looked for a while at the cropped lawn and the soccer net beside the fence; Ciel hadn’t used it in months. And then he looked at the ash-tray at his elbow, heavy green glass, still full of burned-out ends. Not his cigarettes. It was only Sebastian who smoked around here; and Vincent got up, his chair scraping on the deck, and threw the whole mess into the trash can. Tidying up.

The house was looking pretty clean, today.

When he came back inside at half-past nine, Ciel was still curled into the corner of the couch. 

Vincent paused, watching Ciel’s head growing heavier against the cushion.

‘Go to bed, now. Go on.’

‘’m not tired.’

‘Ciel.’ He leaned over. ‘Bed.’

The little mouth pouted, sleepy. ‘What about you?’

‘Nope. Work to do.’

Ciel glared. And pulled himself out of the couch cushions, unwinding his skinny long legs, and Vincent turned off the TV. Finally. It was quiet.

When he turned around Ciel just stood there, hanging in the doorway, bumping his phone against his thigh. ‘G’night, dad.’

‘Good night.’

And Ciel still stood there.

Vincent looked back over. ‘Hey,’ he said, more softly. Because he knew what uncertainty looked like. And his kid was unhappy, and he was a fucking idiot. ‘Come here.’

Ciel didn’t move. 

So Vincent went to him, and touched his soft hair. ‘Go on, now. Go to bed. It’s going to be okay.’

Ciel went limp against him, a slump of a hug. And Vincent hugged him back. Bent to kiss the top of his kid’s warm head. Sweet. Apple shampoo. And Ciel turned his face up, crumpled.

‘Daddy?’

‘Hm?’ Vincent let his hand slide down, just behind Ciel’s neck. Tucked behind it. 

‘Can I sleep in yours?’

Vincent looked at the arching neck, the line of the kid’s collar-bone. He didn’t look at his mouth. ‘Not tonight.’

‘You said.’

‘Yeah,’ said Vincent. ‘I said a lot of things. But I can’t.’

He kissed Ciel’s forehead, the slip of hair that fell over it. And brushed the hair away, and kissed it again, softer, and he could feel Ciel holding onto his shirt now. And he kissed the swell of the kid’s cheek. High on the curve of it.

Ciel’s blue eyes were wide, liquid. He looked sweet as a doll. ‘Daddy--’

It was hard to breathe. 

Vincent wanted to push his fingers into the kid’s mouth. He was dizzy with love. Hard in his chest. His gut. 

But he straightened up. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Upstairs.’ 

And Ciel let go of Vincent’s shirt and went up, slow on the carpeted steps, and then he stopped and looked back. And kept on going. 

Vincent heard the door slam upstairs.

Where’s the edge? Is there a line? Between the kiss that will send you softly to sleep, and the one that will keep you aching all night.

Vincent leaned against the wall. ‘Shit,’ he said. Out loud. 

He had the queen-sized bed to himself that night. 

Not like he had an option.

*********

The morning alarm went off at six-thirty, and Vincent rolled out of bed slowly. Made coffee. 

Ciel came down at seven with his hair unbrushed. 

Vincent was at the cupboard, trying to find the coffee machine filters. He’d have to go shopping after lunch.

‘Morning,’ he said over his shoulder. 

But he felt the warm little hand rest on his back, and the bump of the kid’s head against him. Vincent held still.

‘Froot Loops,’ said Ciel, muffled into Vincent’s back.

‘Not on weekdays, not that sugary shit.’ Quietly. ‘And anyway, we don’t have any left. There’s a banana in the bowl.’

When he turned around Ciel was gone, but the banana was still there. The kid’s diet was a mess. He liked grapes, though. 

Vincent wrote it on the shopping list.

He was still in the middle of washing out his breakfast bowl when he heard the feet scatter through the kitchen.

‘Shit, you have to _go_. Ciel?’

‘I know.’ The feet came pattering back through. Ciel grabbed his water bottle from the bench and tried to push it into his backpack. He had the bag balanced on his bare thigh, his knee bent. His long socks pushed low around his ankles. Pink sneakers. Denim shorts, of course. The shadow of one purple bruise peeked under the cuff across his soft thigh.

‘It’s cold out. You need jeans.’

‘’m fine.’ 

He’d brushed his hair, at least.

‘See you later.’

‘Yeah.’

Ciel swung his bag over one shoulder. And stopped, catching hold of Vincent’s shirt. ‘Bye, daddy.’ He was waiting. And his mouth was soft, glittery. He’d put lip-gloss on.

Vincent dried his hands on the dishcloth. And he pulled Ciel a little bit closer, by the hem of _his_ shirt, and put his hands on Ciel’s shoulders when he bent to kiss his forehead.

‘Bye, honey,’ he said, and he hadn’t meant to. But that’s what Rachel had always said to them when they left for school. ‘Home at half-past three. Yeah?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Ciel didn’t let go of him. 

And Vincent tilted up his baby chin and kissed him again, his cheek this time. Lower. Close to the corner of the little pink mouth. He could smell the lip-gloss, artificial strawberry. 

And Ciel let him go, and the front door clattered shut. 

There was a line. The corner of his mouth was too close.

Fucking lip-gloss.

**********

Vincent went shopping. Two suburbs over, mostly to get away from the familiar streets and the cramped local car park, and also to avoid Steffie, who worked at the supermarket check-out and had briefly gone out with him. _Gone out._ A simple euphemism for _been to an overpriced hipster burger joint and slept with him twice and decided to become a suffocating pain in the ass._ It wasn’t worth the effort. And that was the problem with being in your thirties and having a kid already; they think you’re expecting _serious._ Whatever serious looks like these days.

Rachel had been different; she’d understood him. And they’d never expected _serious_ , either, never expected twins and suburbia. But shit happens. And it had been okay for a while. For as long as she was around. 

Sebastian had always given him shit over it. _Love._ Dismissively. _You’re in love? Fuck off. You wouldn’t know love if it bit you, Vincent._ He’d known Vincent longer than anyone, since the first day of tenth grade-- both newcomers, both arrogant little assholes, Sebastian from the East Coast and Vincent from the South. Meeting here in the Midwest. And even then Sebastian had said it.

But Vincent was tired of thinking about Sebastian today.

The check-out girl at Golden Valley was sleek, blonde. That snow-coloured plump Swedish skin. Beautiful. Like a Lucas Cranach painting, her chin somehow soft and pointy at the same time. And she was chatty, like most girls were around him, pausing with her hands held nicely. He pretended to care about the Vikings for two and a half minutes because her brother played college football, she said.

This was normal. Vincent knew how to do this. And he got her number, scrawled on his receipt because his phone was back in the car, because that’s what a man does when he’s bored and single and needs to get laid. He even sat for a while in the car afterwards, transcribing. From paper to phone-screen. 

He was home again and watching the clock at three thirty. 

Ciel was there on time, throwing open the door. A thump on the stairs.

Vincent stood at the office doorway. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Fine.’ Ciel stopped halfway up, his backpack trailing behind him. ‘You gotta sign a thing for sports day, Mr Cameron said.’ He looked wind-rumpled. His nose was pink with the chill.

‘Okay,’ said Vincent. Ciel disappeared.

And Vincent went back to his desk. 

This is normal. This is what it tastes like.

***********

At dinner time Ciel took his bowl of soup into the living room to eat. Vincent didn’t stop him, because that was the usual thing, too. He wasn’t going to make the kid start eating at the table, not family dinner, Christ.

It felt weirder than usual to be eating alone, though. So he texted the girl from the supermarket. Annika, apparently.

_Heyy we should catch a game next weekend if u want_

And he put the phone away in his office. She’d answer, or not.

He went to the freezer. And then back to the living room doorway. ‘Where’s the ice cream?’

‘In the freezer.’ And the tub was in the kid’s lap. Vincent could see it.

‘Where’s the chocolate fudge?’

Ciel looked up. ‘There’s not much left.’ The little shit was grinning at him.

‘Not what I asked.’ 

‘You can buy some more.’ Ciel shrugged, and licked his spoon deliberately. 

‘When you get a job, you can buy your own fucking ice cream. In the meantime you’re going to learn to share.’

Ciel looked back down at the tub. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m not sharing my spoon, though.’

Vincent was smiling when he went back into the living room with his own spoon.

And that was okay, actually. It was okay, and Ciel was smiling again too, and things were going to be okay. Ciel moved his leg off the couch cushion to make room for Vincent, and they shared the ice cream in silence for a while.

Ciel was in his pajamas already, the pale blue checkered shorts and a t-shirt, Christ, where had he gotten that? Marl grey and a goddamn unicorn. Glitter. A girl’s t-shirt. It was loose over his narrow chest, but too short. Vincent could see the tiny pucker of his belly button between the hem and the drawstring waistband of the shorts. The flash of smooth skin.

‘I didn’t sign that thing yet,’ said Vincent. ‘For your teacher.’

‘I’ll get it after,’ Ciel said with his mouth full. ‘It’s only sports, I don’t care.’ He shuddered and his knee bumped Vincent’s. ‘Shit, brain freeze.’ He half-glared. ‘You made me talk.’

‘Hey,’ said Vincent. ‘Don’t swear.’ 

Ciel didn’t answer. He was sucking his thumb, pressing it to the roof of his mouth, his eyes screwed shut. That’s the cure for brain-freeze, Vincent had shown him. But it was hard to think, watching Ciel pull his thumb out again. The plush pucker of his wet lips. And Ciel smiled up at him, and licked his thumb again. Slowly.

‘Better?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ciel. He reached for his spoon again. 

And Vincent tapped his own spoon thoughtfully against his chin. The polished tip of it was still ice-cold. He waited until Ciel had his mouth full of chocolate ice-cream, and then he lowered his spoon. He ran the cold bowl of it over Ciel’s bare knee.

Lightly down his folded leg, and he saw the pale skin prickling. 

‘Don’t,’ said Ciel. Muffled. He shook Vincent off. He didn’t look up.

Vincent took another bite of ice cream. And did it again. The back of Ciel’s wrist, this time. 

‘Don’t,’ said Ciel, but this time it was very quiet. Only a whisper, and he looked up at Vincent through his lashes. The wrong kind of look. Vincent swallowed too hard. And the ice cream ached behind his eyes, and he looked away from his kid. 

Ciel scuffled, kneeling up on the couch beside him. ‘Can I do it to you?’

Vincent didn’t raise his eyes from the tub. ‘Okay.’

He felt the little shiver of cold above his bare elbow when Ciel tried it. He grinned. And put the ice cream tub down, and took the kid’s wrist. 

‘It’s better along the inside,’ he said. ‘More sensitive.’

He ran his thumb down it, the line of the boy’s inner arm. The soft crease of his elbow. ‘See?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Or here.’ Vincent touched his fingertips to the side of Ciel’s neck. 

Ciel licked his lips. ‘Okay.’ And he steadied himself, one hand on Vincent’s shoulder. The other holding the spoon. And he trailed it down Vincent’s neck, a flinch of cold metal. ‘Like that?’

‘I guess.’ Vincent took the spoon from Ciel. Held the small hand captive. ‘I’d like it better if it was just your finger, though.’

‘Okay. Here.’ Ciel pulled his hand away, and his touch was slow, warm. Under Vincent’s jaw, a slide down to his collar-bone, and he was watching Vincent’s face. Level with it, kneeling up. Meeting his gaze too steadily. Waiting.

Vincent breathed out. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Perfect.’ 

He settled his hand on Ciel’s hip, the span of bone. The bare stomach, and Vincent pushed his hand under the t-shirt. Slid it up. They were still blush-coloured, cloud-coloured, the bruises over Ciel’s chest. But the kid’s skin was delicate under his fingertips. Smooth over those fine ribs, and he felt upwards gently.

Ciel didn’t look away. He held his daddy’s eyes, waiting. And when Vincent’s thumb found the little nub of nipple he saw Ciel’s pink lips part.

‘You like that?’ Vincent rubbed it, slowly. Circling.

Ciel didn’t answer. His hand was still on Vincent’s shoulder. His cheeks were colouring, peachy soft. And he leaned closer, his eyes half-closing, close enough to feel his breaths. He was quiet under Vincent’s touch. Under the teasing thumb, the press over the firm bead of flesh.

Too sensitive, this little body. Vincent’s throat ached. And he looked down between Ciel’s kneeling legs at the swell of his shorts. 

‘Oh, honey,’ he whispered. 

He pulled his kid close, nice and close, hot against his chest, leaning back against the cushions, and the press of Ciel’s little hard-on was better than any drug. It sang through Vincent’s head. 

He kissed Ciel’s forehead lightly. And his cheek.

Ciel closed his eyes. He let Vincent kiss down his chin, his throat. 

And Vincent’s hands were shaking. He hadn’t meant to do this. He wasn’t going to do this, but Ciel arched up against his mouth and was making these noises, tiny whimpers. 

He took the kid’s chin. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You’re too fucking cute. You know that?’ Vincent kissed the corner of his mouth. Chocolate-flavoured. And over his little lips, and then wet between them. Finding the wriggle of Ciel’s tongue. Sweet and deep, and he felt his son moan under it. 

And Vincent was hard already and had to pull away. He wasn’t going to do this. He sighed, and looked at Ciel’s wide eyes. His slippery mouth.

‘I love you. You know that, right?’

‘Yeah.’ Ciel’s eyelids were trembling. His breath was unsteady. ‘I know.’

‘Come on,’ Vincent said. ‘You got school tomorrow.’

He shuffled Ciel off his lap, not meeting the blue eyes, and followed the kid slowly upstairs. Switching off the lights.

‘Teeth, honey,’ he said at the top.

And he brushed his own in the silent bathroom. And he was an idiot, a fucking idiot, but he could do this.

He leaned around the doorway. ‘You want to sleep in mine?’

‘Can I?’ Ciel’s voice was hushed. 

‘Yeah. Of course you can.’

He tucked Ciel into the big bed. He didn’t look at his son’s shorts, at the little bulge still swollen under them. And then the kid was half-lost under the folds of the covers. And Vincent got ready for bed too, kicking off his jeans. Switching off the lamp. But he didn’t take off his t-shirt, his boxers, not like he usually did. He wasn’t going to let anything happen.

He wasn’t going to make a habit of this.

‘G’night.’

‘Night, now.’ Vincent settled into the pillow. He was stiff as hell; his shoulders, neck. The swell of his cock. He ignored it. 

Ciel moved closer, hot and soft under the covers. 

And Vincent held him carefully. He should, if Ciel liked it. If the kid felt safe here, and liked the touch on his back. Slow on his neck. If he lay still and let Vincent slide his hand under the t-shirt. 

If he made a noise like this, panting.

Vincent closed his eyes in the dark, feeling the little body shake against him. The kid was jerking off, a bump against Vincent’s thigh. Breathy. And Vincent lay still and let him. Took his hand away. He didn’t want to touch him.

But the sound was unbearable, and Vincent gritted his teeth. And maybe this was a kind of punishment too.

Ciel’s knees were clenching around Vincent’s leg. And he must be close already, the soft little baby, and then Vincent heard him squeak. 

‘ _Hnn_. Uh--’

God. _God._ And he found Ciel’s shoulders and pulled him up close and Ciel was limp already, shaking.

‘Daddy.’ Whispered.

‘Huh?’ He found Ciel’s cheek in the dark. He kissed it. ‘Tell me, honey.’

But Ciel didn’t say anything. He buried his face against his daddy’s neck, his shuffling legs bumping between Vincent’s, and Vincent flinched. He hadn’t realised how hard he was himself. How much he needed it. 

And this wasn’t the answer, his little boy feeling down his body in the dark but _shit._ Ciel’s fingers were hot. Over Vincent’s stomach, under the band of his shorts. Feeling.

‘Shit.’ Vincent half-raised himself. Scuffled up, and found the lamp-switch. ‘Ciel. Baby--’

And Ciel looked up, his hand still tucked down Vincent’s boxers, and he stopped. ‘Don’t you want me to?’

Vincent looked down at the pointed face, the soft flop of hair. Dark-lashed eyes. The pink mouth, waiting. He touched Ciel’s chin lightly. His soft lower lip. ‘Would you, baby?’

Ciel wriggled between Vincent’s legs, tugging at the waistband. 

Vincent helped him. He ached at the touch of the warm fingers. And it was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, Ciel’s mouth gathered up like that, the point of his small tongue. And the first touch of it. 

‘Fuck,’ he whispered.

Vincent didn’t push. He held still. Ciel’s mouth was too small, he couldn’t take it very deep. 

And he didn’t deserve this. His boy, his baby sucking him. 

‘Ciel.’ He grunted, his hands deep in the kid’s hair. Rubbing down his neck, the curve of his narrow back. ‘Baby. You’re too good to me. _Shit._ ’

Ciel made a sound, _hmm_. Warmly. He was hunkered down, his knees spread. His head pressed low between Vincent’s legs and his little ass up in the air, and Vincent wished he could reach it. He wanted his finger inside the kid, as soft as Ciel was taking him in his mouth. But he couldn’t reach. And he wasn't going to touch him there again. And Ciel would still be sore from the other stuff, his daddy’s cock. And Sebastian’s.

And Vincent growled and pressed in further. It wasn’t deep, not even half-way, but he felt Ciel retch over the length. The croak in his throat. And Vincent eased off, stroking Ciel’s cheek.

‘I’m sorry, baby. You’re doing so well.’

Just a little harder, and he wasn't going to last long. Not with those blue eyes fluttering up to look at him. The kid had to open so wide, his pink lips stretched. And Vincent slid his hand down underneath Ciel’s throat and felt the little gulps. The bob of his adam’s apple, a sharp point sliding under his fingertip.

‘Oh fuck,’ he said. ‘Baby. _Yes._ ’

Ciel didn’t close his eyes. His lashes quivered at the strain. His eyes were wet. But he looked up at Vincent, wide blue hungry baby and Vincent gripped the bed-frame. 

‘Fuck,’ he said, ‘fuck--’ 

He came sharply, his hand in Ciel’s hair. Gasping. Trying not to clench his knees around the kid’s ribs. And he saw Ciel flinch at the gush in his throat. Then gulp. 

Vincent was still shaking when Ciel pulled away. A bubble of drool and the cum he’d half-swallowed.

Ciel bent his head and wiped his mouth on the sheet. And his eyes, the glitter of tears, and sat there with his hands splayed on the mattress. His head tilted. His cheeks all red, waiting, and he was so proud of himself. 

Vincent rubbed his own hand on the sheet. ‘You’ve done that before.’ He kept it neutral. He didn’t need Ciel pulling away again.

‘Yeah.’ Softly.

‘You, uh-- who?’

‘Sebastian.’ 

He shouldn’t have asked. He already knew this. He shouldn’t have done it to himself. It burned him to hear it and he asked again.

‘Who else?’

‘Nobody,’ said Ciel. ‘Only him.’ Which was bad, those words in his boy’s little mouth. Bad. 

But not quite true. Vincent wasn’t sure if the truth was better. 

‘Um. And Mr Martin, I guess.’ 

‘You guess.’ Flatly.

‘But, um.’ He saw the bright flash of Ciel’s eyes. The soft voice. Teasing. ‘That time I didn’t swallow. So it doesn’t count, right?’

Vincent cleared his throat. ‘Honey,’ he said. ‘Don’t do that anymore. I don’t want anybody treating you like that.’

Ciel bit his lip. But his cheeks were still flushed, his mouth still rosy. 

‘Hey,’ said Vincent gently. ‘It’s okay. You did so good. Come here. Lie down, now.’ 

He held the kid close when he switched off the lamp again.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That was--’ He sighed, and kissed the top of Ciel’s head. ‘That was more than I deserve.’

Ciel nestled at Vincent’s shoulder. Murmured into it.

‘Hmm?’

‘Love you, daddy.’ 

‘Oh, honey.’ It almost hurt. ‘I love you too.’

But Ciel was relaxed on his chest. And it was better this way.

Better that the kid was here, tucked up warm in the big bed. Sleepy on the pillow, soft in his daddy’s arms. 

Better that Vincent kept him close. 


	3. Milk Coffee

  


Tuesday morning; Ciel woke up first.

Vincent felt the kid bounce off the mattress. Heard the bedroom door, and then the bathroom down the hall. Not the ensuite; Ciel had gone back to his own room.

Vincent rolled over slowly. Clenched his hand, numb with lying on it. And dragged himself out of bed. 

He washed his hair in the shower. Not because it needed it; mostly for the routine, the click of the plastic pop-up lid in the warm rushing silence of the bathroom. And also because he wasn’t ready to go downstairs yet.

He’d slept pretty well, considering. He did consider. As he dried himself. Maybe it wasn’t that much of a surprise; he’d been tired last night. And he hadn’t had a blowjob in a couple months.

It hadn’t been his idea. Ciel had touched him, had offered it.

Vincent could have said no. He knew he should have said no. But now he was wondering, while he pulled on his bathrobe and went downstairs-- 

Ciel had touched him. Did the kid know it was wrong?

Vincent made himself a coffee in silence, ignoring his son at the kitchen table behind him.

The kid had done that before. _Only him._ That’s what Ciel had said.

But Mr Martin. That was the twins’ soccer coach. Ciel had quit this year. If the kid was telling the truth, if he’d sucked the guy off, and he’d been with Sebastian all summer-- when had this started? With who? Where?

He’d have to ask. He didn’t think Ciel would tell him. He didn’t think Ciel would mention anything at all if he didn’t, and he could understand that; sometimes you don’t talk about things the next day. That, though. He needed to know if Ciel knew what he’d done. What they’d both done. He’d ask.

Later. Tonight. After work; it was Tuesday, and he had to go into the office today.

Vincent sighed over his shoulder. ‘Straight home after school, yeah?’

‘Yep.’ Ciel was unwrapping a muesli bar for his breakfast.

‘I talked to Mrs Barron next door and she’ll know if you’re not here on time.’ He had, too. Sometimes a bored housewife is good for more than just letting her dogs shit in your yard.

‘Okay.’

‘Ciel. I’m serious.’ 

The kid put down his phone and leaned back on his chair. Tipped it back, balanced on two legs, and he looked up at Vincent with a funny expression.

‘I will,’ he said. ‘I said I will.’ His mouth was all tucked up like his feelings were hurt.

Vincent paused. ‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Good.’

He ironed his shirt in the living room while Ciel was in the shower. 

The kid’s hair was still damp when he came back downstairs all uncombed. He had his coat on, the silver-grey goose-down one with the fur-lined hood. It was a nice one, a year or two old now. Vincent had bought it for him. The first time he’d only had to buy one winter coat instead of two. 

Ciel was wearing denim shorts under it.

Vincent looked across at the kid over in the kitchen. ‘Get some jeans on.’

‘’m not cold.’

It was too fucking windy out, Vincent could hear it. And even in the house here it wasn’t warm; he hadn’t turned the heater on this morning, they’d both be out of here in another half hour anyway. His bare legs were prickling cold beneath his bathrobe. 

But it wasn’t even about the cold. It was about those bare skinny legs under the soft bulk of the shiny jacket, the ankle socks and the coral-pink sneakers.

‘Go back upstairs,’ he said, ‘and put something warmer on.’

Ciel dropped his backpack on the kitchen floor. He looked like he wasn’t going to obey. But he turned and he went back up again, and Vincent looked at the schoolbag on the floor. 

Six months ago he’d bought all the kid’s clothes. Not just the big things, coats and snow boots, but everything-- his pyjamas and socks and everything. Ciel wanted his own stuff now and it was all trash, cheap chain-store shit. It grated on Vincent’s nerves to see it in the laundry, the unicorn t-shirt and the candy-striped pajama shorts. The ankle socks with the ruffle at the top.

He’d never seen those lace panties before, though, the blue ones Ciel had been wearing on Saturday. The kid had kept them hidden. Where, in his wardrobe?

Vincent unplugged the iron and went upstairs.

Ciel’s bedroom door wasn’t even shut properly and Vincent pushed it open, standing in the doorway.

The kid didn’t look around. He’d pulled off his coat and sneakers and was shuffling off his little shorts, those stupid fucking jean-shorts, and stood for a moment shovelling through the clothes in his shelf. Just standing there in his pale-blue t-shirt and his socks and his long baby legs. The white flash of his underwear. 

He knew his daddy was watching him. He looked back over his shoulder. 

Vincent folded his arms. 

And when Ciel found his jeans and tugged them out of the stack and pulled them on, it was slow. A slow wriggle of his ass. When he crouched to tug his sneakers back on without doing the laces. 

The jeans were too pale, too skinny, a rip over the knee and a sequined patch on the back pocket. But he was covered up. And anyway it was cold out.

Ciel grabbed his coat, and rubbed his chin, self-conscious. And stopped at the doorway, waiting for Vincent to move. His hair was still a mess.

‘Better?’ 

‘I guess. We’re going shopping this weekend.’

‘Oh.’ Ciel’s blue eyes were wide and pretty. ‘Why? Where?’

‘You’re getting big.’ Vincent shrugged. ‘You need some new stuff.’

Ciel smiled up at him. And Vincent followed his kid back down to the kitchen.

It was earlyish; he drove Ciel the five blocks to school. Dropped him on the corner, because the boys had always wanted to walk the last bit themselves. Hand in hand; Vincent could still picture it.

‘Ready?’

‘Yeah. See you later--’ 

And Ciel pushed open the car door. It slammed closed again. The kid hadn’t waited for a goodbye.

And Vincent watched his son jump up the curb, hoisting his backpack, and watched the flash of the little white socks between the jeans and sneakers, the shimmer of Ciel’s silver-grey coat. Falling into step with a girl on the sidewalk.

Ciel didn’t look back.

Vincent switched through three radio stations on the drive into the city before he gave up and put on his playlist instead.

_Black Rebel Motorcycle Club._

_Hüsker Dü._

He had to figure out what the fuck he was going to do. With Ciel, yeah, but with Sebastian too. He couldn’t let this go. 

_José González._

_The Black Keys._

He’d have to wait until he spoke to Ciel first. He couldn’t go in there and confront the guy without something, without proof and facts and something firm to say. Sebastian was good with words, he’d be a fucking nightmare to argue down. Vincent needed a plan.

_Kongos._

_Powderfinger._

_The Who,_ and they weren’t rockers at all. Mods. A buzzing 60’s sound. And Vincent changed the playlist blindly, smacking the console screen, because he didn’t need to hear that this morning.

The 60’s British art scene had always been Sebastian’s thing.

The office was quiet when he got there, at least; only Nita, who was quiet, and Campbell at his desk in the corner-- and he was one of those sleek fucking fools with a soft voice and designer sneakers who thought he was edgy and didn’t know shit about being a boss. But if he wanted to be his employees’ _friend_ and lean against their desks and talk about skateboarding and craft beer--

Vincent pretended to listen while he took off his jacket, and unzipped his laptop case, and sat down. He lost eight minutes before the man finally pissed off to bother Nita.

He’d have to go freelance again one day. One day. He’d had a plan a couple of years ago, he’d been talking about it with Rachel-- starting his own design school. Fine art and design. Maybe even a tiny independent book-binding studio, a Heidelberg printing press and limited run folios. And he wasn’t going to do it alone, he already knew an art history lecturer; but these things, these ideas. A concept is not quite reality. You learn this at art school. 

A concept suspends the rules of the world: _this amount of plaster will not not collapse; this amount of bronze will not be too expensive_. You don’t let reality affect your imagination. For a brief moment, the mind moves untethered: _a woman’s body is stylised, it is a bird._ _The angle of a horse’s neck curves, the shadow is like carved acanthus._ Or it mirrors the state of a mind, the state of a culture: _art is what the artist makes it. Art is what society sells us. Art is not art._

A concept is based on certain assumptions about reality. _Working freelance will give me more time to spend with my wife._

The way things are, the way they’ll continue to be. _I will give my sons more to inherit than my father gave me._

Assumptions. _I could start a business with a friend; I’ve never argued too much with him._

_I know him better than anyone._

Vincent bit the inside of his cheek.

He got himself a coffee and worked on the museum brochure for three hours before he made himself take a break. And he managed until after lunch, when he stopped to check his phone.

He hadn’t changed his lockscreen in a while. It was a photo of the twins in the backyard, sitting on the back step in their soccer gear; Ciel’s head was on Val’s shoulder. 

Val had that little quirk on his face, that questioning grin. The corners of his mouth had always curled up differently from Ciel’s. And Ciel was smiling too; softer, smaller, his little hand tucked into the hem of his brother’s soccer shirt.

It had been a throwaway picture, unstaged, and the pale band in the corner behind the twins was Vincent’s trousers. The lighting was good, though. Late afternoon. The yard was transformed-- the whole thing was a haze of gold, the boy’s soft heads were in a halo. 

Ciel. Valerian. The side-shadow on the grass that might have been Rachel. 

Which meant the one behind the camera was Sebastian, of course. Him and his fucking camera. 

Vincent changed the picture. Picked a clean anonymous pine forest. Nature is supposed to be soothing, isn’t it?

He didn’t need to be thinking about this again. 

He was thinking about it. How long Sebastian had been wound up inside the little circle of his family. How many years.

And how long Ciel had known him. 

So when? How?

Christ, he’d had the guy over almost every weekend. Sebastian had taken Ciel to soccer practice once this year when Candice’s mom couldn’t drop him off. And all those hours after school. Ciel had been home late almost every day.

_Just talking._ Or _at Olivia’s._ Or _I didn’t know it was late._ This kid, opening the front door with his knees bruised, his slut mouth still wet--

Vincent got himself another coffee. Milk, no sugar. And went back to comparing color charts. 

At three thirty-five his phone buzzed at his elbow. 

_Ciel home safe._

Vincent leaned back in his chair, his exhale a hiss in his hushed office cubicle. Thank you, Mrs Barron. Bless you and your ugly goddamn dye job. Christ fucking bless you, and may your husband never find out about you and Taylor Henderson from next door.

He played a different playlist on the drive home. A string quartet, and he could separate the instruments; Rachel had made sure of that.

_That’s the second violin. And hear the cello? First violin plays the melody. It’s the closest thing to a human voice, it cries like a baby..._

She’d been a concert cellist. She’d listened to this when they drove anywhere. This piece was slow, a terrible lamentation; a shift through the minor keys. And he’d heard her play the choral version often enough that he could almost hear the words: something religious, an Easter thing. She’d played the concert almost every year.

_O sacred head, surrounded by crown of piercing thorn…_

The translations were various. The melody was ancient, though, 16th century, and the Latin text was older still. These songs return. They show themselves through the ages, re-worked, the same tunes, unforgettable. He remembered Rachel talking about it to Sebastian. They’d always spoken easily to each other, his wife and his best friend. Which was good, and also not so good. 

Vincent turned the music off. 

When he got home and opened his front door it was quiet downstairs. He dropped his briefcase on the kitchen table, and went up and knocked at Ciel’s closed bedroom door.

‘Yeah?’

Vincent opened the door. Ciel was lying on his stomach on his bed, with his homework open on the covers. And a plate of cookies. And a mug of milk. 

‘You okay?’

‘Mhm-hm.’ A mouthful of cookie. 

‘It’s almost dinner time, you shouldn’t still be eating.’

Ciel swallowed his mouthful and brushed a crumb from his notes. ‘I got hungry.’

‘No shoes on the bed.’

‘Okay.’ The kid still didn’t take his sneakers off.

‘No problems with school?’

‘Nhn-hn.’ He had a pen in his hand. But he was on his phone.

The room was a mess-- just like this morning, like always. More clothes on the floor than in the cupboard. The dresser was a jumble of hair-brushes and empty candy wrappers and little trays of eye-shadow.

Vincent looked back at his son.

He’d wanted to talk about things, but Ciel was looking up at him. Interrupted, impatient. It was hard to think. 

‘Okay then.’ Vincent shrugged. ‘I’m making cream of chicken soup for dinner.’

He was thinking while he was cooking. Ciel was calm today. He didn’t want to fuck up the mood. And any question he asked, anything at all would stir up shit.

But it was burning in the center of his body. This need to know.

Ciel came down for dinner. He took his soup to the living room, and the cinematic violence hummed distantly in Vincent’s ears as he ate in his own silence.

The kid was back in his own world again.

How does a kid suck off his own father and say nothing about it the next day?

When Vincent finished eating he leaned around the doorway. ‘Take it upstairs, Ciel. I want the tv.’

‘Hey.’ His son shuffled over onto his back to glare over at him. ‘I’m watching this.’

‘It’s only the fucking credits. Upstairs.’

Ciel pulled himself off the couch. Grabbing his phone, and dropping it. Picking up his homework folder. He left behind his socks and an empty glass and his half-finished soup, cold in the bowl.

Vincent watched his kid stomp up the stairs.

Then he settled himself on the couch, stretched out, and made it half-way through a movie before he looked at the clock and paused it; 10:30. He should send Ciel to bed. If he didn’t remind him, the kid would stay up as late as his daddy did; midnight. One. 

Vincent sat up, frowning. And he went upstairs.

Ciel was in his pajamas now, the pink striped shorts, but he was back in the same position: sprawled on his stomach on the bed. His homework was dumped on the floor.

‘Sleep time.’

‘Yeah.’ Ciel didn’t look up.

Vincent stepped into the room, avoiding the scattered papers on the floor, the tennis shoes and the fallen teddy bear. Not a teddy bear; a pink plush turtle.

He sat down on the edge of Ciel’s bed, and he could feel his kid’s tension. ‘You got to clean this up some time, okay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I can’t wash this shit if you don’t get it down to the laundry.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How was your day?’

‘It was okay.’ Ciel had never been good at answering that question, though. ‘Boring, I guess. I just want it to be Christmas.’

Vincent could hardly remember his own school years, not that early. Long days. Endless days and the burnt-out class-room air, over-heated or bone-cold AC.

He watched the curve of Ciel’s lowered eye-lashes, and the fidget of the small hand. Rolling his pen between his fingers. It must be lonely, up here in his room after the buzz and noise of school. For a kid who didn’t like to be alone.

This is why he’d taken a goddamn office job. For this, for his family. His son.

‘You can’t say that. School’s only just gone back.’

Maybe it wasn’t school that was bothering Ciel. Only the end of summer. The end of his summer. 

‘Mhm?’ Vincent bent closer. He kissed the kid’s shoulder, warm through the t-shirt. ‘I don’t want you to be bored. I’ll take you out somewhere this weekend. Sound good?’

Closer to the soft bare neck. 

‘Where?’ Ciel’s voice wobbled. 

‘Hmm. Don’t know.’ Vincent rubbed his nose on Ciel’s shoulder. ‘Shopping, yeah? Where do you want to go?’

He was at Ciel’s neck now, and kissed it softly.

‘I don’t-- wasn’t-- ah, hey--’ And then Ciel was only breathing. Waiting. He couldn’t even talk, he was distracted, and Vincent felt the slow shiver through his body. He’d only come up here to talk. He wanted to ask some things. He didn’t want to get angry at his son, he’d go slowly, but the kid was breathing hard already. Ciel was waiting for him.

Vincent found the angle of his son’s jaw, and the cool smooth curve of his cheek. He rubbed his own cheek against it. ‘Wherever you want, honey.’

Ciel didn’t answer. His fingers bumped warm at Vincent’s chin. Slid slowly down, and hooked into the neck of his daddy’s t-shirt.

‘I wouldn’t want you to get bored. We’ll do whatever you want.’

‘Yeah?’ Ciel breathed in.

‘Of course.’

Vincent closed his hand over Ciel’s. And rolled him over slowly, and Ciel let him. The kids hands were curling, uncurling, soft on the bed. His cheeks were dark pink. 

‘What do you usually do when you get bored?’ Vincent ran his thumb down the front seam of Ciel’s pajama shorts. The squish of his baby dick underneath. ‘You want to tell me?’

Ciel wriggled. A bump against Vincent's hand. He whispered something.

‘Louder, honey.’ Vincent smiled slowly. ‘You have to speak up.’

Ciel arched again, bucking under the teasing pressing thumb. ‘Sometimes I play with it.’

Vincent sighed. A long exhale. And he pushed his hand inside the kid’s shorts and found it, the hot little thing, as long as his finger. It burned his skin, his mind. He pulled his hand away.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Let me see.’ He shuffled the pajama shorts down and Ciel was watching him. Biting his lip. 

Vincent’s neck was hot. These narrow hips, and the kid’s arousal, stiff and pale. The naked pink tip of it. 

‘Show me how you play with it, baby.’

Ciel’s dark lashes fluttered. His smile was slow, a bloom across his mouth. And he moved, reaching his hand down. Touching himself so awkwardly, his fingers slow. Rubbing. Curling around the firm little sprig of pink. 

His skinny knees were pressed together. 

Vincent ran his fingers over the kid’s ankle. ‘Legs apart, now. I want to see you.’ 

Ciel flopped his knees apart. The crease of his bare ass and the gather of his little hole. It still looked raw, but the scratches were healing. 

Vincent grunted, and he couldn’t help it. He palmed himself slowly through his jeans. 

He wasn’t going to touch the kid. He wasn’t going to do that again. He looked at the shadowy bruises, blush-coloured over Ciel’s hip bones. Still purple, the deep fingertip prints in the plump of his son’s thigh.

And his gaze trailed back up to the coral-pink t-shirt, and the brighter pink of the friendship bracelets on the kid’s wrists, and Ciel’s flushed face. The glistening wide eyes.

Vincent rubbed his hand over the kid’s belly, up under the shirt. ‘Mhm. You like being watched?’ 

Ciel moaned, a sound like a sigh. His hand was curled around himself, tugging tight and graceless. Pumping his bright-tipped cock.

Vincent’s heart was a lump in his throat, something to be swallowed around. Choked on. He hadn’t seen this before. The feverish colour on Ciel's cheeks, the quick panting breaths. He hadn’t seen the kid finish.

He trailed his hand down the shaky little thigh. ‘Does it feel good?’

‘Yeah, ahh--’

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s _good_ \--’

‘I want you to feel good. I want you to be happy. You know I mean it, don’t you?’

‘Uh-huh-’

Vincent grunted. Took his hand away from his own arousal and bent to kiss Ciel’s knee.

‘Ah, f-fuck, daddy--’

Vincent stroked down the silky curve of his son’s belly. ‘I’m here, baby.’

‘Ah, _ahh_ \--’ Ciel’s eyes were rolling. They closed.

A little spatter, clear droplets on his leg.

Vincent kissed the kid’s thigh. His hip. And dabbed at the smear of cum, and he was grinning.

‘Is this all?’ He licked his thumb. ‘Shit. Honey. How many times have you jerked off today?’

Ciel’s voice was a murmur. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Hmm? I’m not going to laugh at you, baby. You must have been busy, you’re nearly dry.’

Ciel’s little mouth turned sour. ‘Sometimes there’s more. At the start there wasn’t any. He said--’ The kid stopped. His eyes were wide and dark.

Vincent didn’t react. There was only one _he_. ‘Go on,’ he said. 

Ciel twitched his nose. ‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Honey.’ Vincent whispered. Murmured. ‘I’m not angry, you can tell me anything.’

Ciel took a deep breath. ‘He said it doesn’t matter. If there isn’t much. And he said it’ll change in a couple months.’ The deep blue eyes were more hesitant. Questioning. ‘Yeah?’ 

Vincent moved slowly. Swiping the rest of the cum off the kid’s leg, and sucking his thumb clean again. 

‘Yeah,’ he said at last. ‘Yeah, sounds about right.’ But he hadn’t realised. He hadn’t thought about it. He’d been twelve himself. Thirteen, maybe. He sighed. ‘Oh, honey.’ And he kissed his son’s sweet warm hair. ‘Honey boy. You’re just a fucking baby, aren’t you?’

Ciel was quiet and soft, and didn’t answer. His eyes were almost closed. He curled his arms around Vincent’s neck.

Vincent hung over him for a moment, breathing carefully. He pulled the kid’s pajama shorts back up. Ciel was almost too tired to lift his hips. Vincent settled the big blanket up over the kid’s bare legs. 

And left him there, curled in his bed. 

‘Night, baby.’

‘Goodnight, daddy.’

Ciel rolled over, a rustle in the covers. Vincent switched the light off.

He lay sleepless in his own bed.

His son wouldn’t tell him. That had been anxiety, he hadn’t even wanted to say the name. Not that Vincent wanted to hear it; he’d turned it over enough times in his own head today. But Ciel knew his daddy wasn’t happy about him, about the other man, and Ciel wouldn’t talk about it. 

Not the stuff Vincent needed to know.

*****

  


Wednesdays he worked from home again. Which was nice, because he’d hear the kid getting home. 

It meant he didn’t have to rush himself in the morning, either, and he cooked up some bacon. Eggs. 

Ciel stood in the doorway, rubbing the grit out of his eyes with one palm. ‘Oh.’ He sniffled. ‘You’re cooking stuff?’

‘We’ve got time. Are you hungry?’

Ciel came up to the stove-top and looked in the frying pan. ‘Yeah. Is the bacon crispy?’

‘Not yet.’ Vincent smiled. ‘Give me a couple minutes and it could be.’

Ciel smiled back, and Vincent leaned down to kiss the top of his head. ‘Hey. Can you get the plates out?’

They ate together at the kitchen table.

There was plenty of time in the mornings, if Vincent kept an eye on the clock. If he made things happen. He drank his orange juice slowly. Maybe he should try to do this more often, not just weekends.

He stacked the dishwasher thoughtfully.

Ciel was already at the front door when Vincent called out to him. 

‘Wait up. No goodbye?’

The kid reappeared at the doorway. ‘Bye, dad.’

Vincent shut the dishwasher. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Not what I wanted, honey.’ He picked up the water bottle from the bench and tucked it into Ciel’s bag. ‘You’re in a rush. Slow down. There’s time.’ He touched his fingertips to the kid’s chin, the velvet curve of it. ‘Are you going to kiss me goodbye?’

He leaned down. And closed his eyes, waiting. 

Ciel’s lips touched his cheek, a flutter of warm breath. And a second kiss. 

Vincent half-opened his eyes and curled his hand around his kid’s wrist. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Very nice. Can I kiss you, now?’

Ciel’s eyes were a shimmer. Pink-lidded. He nodded.

Vincent kissed his boy’s soft mouth slowly. Sweetly, and then pressed another kiss on the tip of his nose. Ciel was holding his breath. 

‘Now it’s time,’ said Vincent. He straightened up. ‘Off you go. Be good, honey.’

Ciel nodded again. And the front door closed behind him.

Cute. Too fucking cute, and the house was quiet without him.

Vincent sighed and turned on the sound system in his office room.

He actually got some work done. Finished up the goddamn brochure and emailed the mock-up layout to his client, and got started on another job. They wanted a logo designed; he frowned. Ate three crackers. Spent ten minutes texting back the girl from the supermarket; Annika? She’d replied to him. He’d try to meet up with her on the weekend.

He drew three sketch designs for the logo. Jerked off absently, determinedly empty-minded. He didn’t think of Ciel’s warm mouth.

He ate another cracker. And chewed on the end of his pen. Swung absently on his office chair. It was half past one already; he’d have to eat something for lunch soon.

And then the doorbell rang, and Vincent sighed as he went to answer it. Midday could only mean Fedex or Mormons. 

He opened the front door, the pen still dangling between his teeth.

The wind blew in two dry leaves and a drift of cigarette smoke. 

Vincent’s hand tightened on the door-handle. ‘I didn’t say you could be here.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. He dropped his cigarette on the doormat and scuffed it out with the toe of his boot. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

The fucker looked the same as he always did. His dark hair was cropped short at the sides and pushed back in a careless sweep. Black buttoned shirt; dark jeans. Turned-up denim showing a selvedge seam. Shirt-cuffs showing silver links. Tired-out face showing not much at all, only his eyes, blinking too slow, and he looked at Vincent steadily. As though he didn’t have a clue how close he was to having his nose smashed in. 

He _didn’t_ have a clue. Or he’d never have come here.

Vincent took the pen out of his mouth. Tapped it against his chin. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said.

They sat in the kitchen. 

Normally they’d go out to the back deck; or Sebastian would go out, nosing around while Vincent got their drinks, and Vincent would find him three cigarettes in already when he joined him.

Not this time. 

Sebastian sat down on one of the wooden chairs, crossing his legs thoughtfully, and Vincent switched on the coffee machine in silence.

He glanced back over his shoulder as he got out the mugs. Sebastian was watching him. 

‘Well,’ said Sebastian. ‘You’ve had quite a busy week.’

Vincent got the milk out of the fridge. ‘It’s only Wednesday.’

‘I know.’ There was a dryness in the man’s voice. ‘It’s only _Wednes_ day.’ Subtle. But undoubted mockery.

Vincent didn’t turn around again. He’d wait. Until Sebastian said something, did something, one of those smug fucking looks where he knew he was pushing the line and wanted to see how far he could go. Because Sebastian must be on edge. He must be very fucking defensive if he felt the need to turn up here. 

He’d have to know that Ciel had told his daddy everything.

Vincent carried the coffee over, and sat down opposite his friend. 

And if Sebastian was going to be defensive, Vincent could take the initiative here. 

‘I haven’t asked you, have I.’ As he pushed the mug across the table. ‘How was your weekend?’

Sebastian touched his fingertips to the mug lightly. Testing. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘actually. That exhibition at Salomés with the jelly shots and the found sculptures-- you remember--’

Vincent remembered. ‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah, well her friend was doing a gig with a Scottish punk group and they needed backdrops. It was interesting.’ Sebastian smiled. That was one of his most complimentary words: _interesting_. There was no judgement; he was either bored or he wasn’t. ‘And how was yours?’

Vincent watched the man’s face. His sharp eyes, and dangerous lazy smile. 

‘My weekend was interesting too.’ He sipped his coffee. He wasn’t going to make accusations. Not yet.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Sebastian.

They talked about films; Pedro Almodóvar and Buster Keaton. And about the weather. Sebastian had picked up the shitty British habit of it. 

And about soccer, because Vincent had played in college, and about chess, because Sebastian still played it. They’d played together for years. Sebastian’s apartment had a checkerboard floor. Portuguese porcelain tiles, Vincent guessed. He’d never asked because the fucker was probably waiting for him to ask; he’d always been a dick about things like that. Sebastian could barely afford the gas for his car but he’d spend his paycheck on theatre tickets. His place was almost empty; an empty apartment, bed and desk and art studio and only the refrigerator full: he didn’t buy things. He bought flavours. Experiences.

He acted like a goddamn millionaire, as though he’d never borrowed a dollar in his life. There isn’t exactly a lot of money in lecturing art history. Vincent knew. That’s why he’d gone into graphic design years ago.

‘Delightful coffee,’ said Sebastian. He wasn’t drinking it. 

‘Yeah, well.’ Vincent shrugged. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming. Or I’d have brought up the French roast from the vault.’

‘I thought you liked surprises.’ Sebastian’s face was perfectly blank.

‘When have I ever liked surprises?’ Vincent swirled the last two inches of coffee in his cup. ‘That was always you.’

‘Mhm. Not exactly. I prefer the long slow death of anticipation.’ Sebastian’s grin was brilliant. ‘But I do think adaptation is an indicator of general intelligence. I try to be flexible.’

‘Well, then.’ Vincent drained his cup in a gulp. ‘Adapt a little and drink your fucking cup of surprise.’ 

He made himself another one.

They talked about Nick Cave. 

They talked about Mona, one of Sebastian’s ex’s who had a gallery in NYC now.

They talked about Neruda and Johnson’s Dictionary and the semantics of irony. 

They didn’t talk about Vincent’s kid. 

Not even once, and Vincent wondered if Sebastian could feel it too, submerged like a warm tide under their words.

Sebastian said something once, though, gossipy shit from one of the private schools in the city, and then he stopped and picked up his mug. ‘It’s petty,’ he said. ‘I know you prefer the liberality of community education.’ And he smiled before he sipped.

And Vincent had actually said that, last year, talking about where he was going to send the kid. He would have had the money for a private school, just. He and Rachel had always planned to put the twins through private for high school. And Sebastian hadn’t said much: _you know my bias_ , he’d said, and made some joke about the school uniforms.

Vincent remembered. _Now_ he remembered and he frowned. 

But Sebastian was talking about something else.

It was almost a quarter to three. Vincent saw the clock above the counter. Was this why Sebastian was here? He was going to hang around and try to see the kid.

Maybe Sebastian saw the glance. 

‘You’re busy,’ he said. And he stood up and carried his undrunk coffee to the sink. ‘I have to get back to work. And so do you, I imagine.’

Vincent stood up too, slowly. Sebastian had a way of leaving abruptly. He never needed to find his jacket or gather his keys. He travelled light and he left when the mood took him, like this, with a half-smile at the front door.

‘I’ll see you around, I suppose.’

‘No doubt,’ said Vincent. And now it seemed over too soon. Sebastian hadn’t said what he’d come here to say. He hadn’t asked anything.

And neither had Vincent. But he’d been waiting to see something, some tension in his friend’s face. 

He hadn’t seen what he was waiting for.

Vincent closed the door. He heard the whine of Sebastian’s car starting and then the low putter. The black convertible sounded like a motorbike, the same raw exhaust. No, not a bike; Vincent smiled thinly. A fucking lawnmower. The engine was a Rover. The body was adapted from another TVR model, the Griffith, and they just threw a fucking Rover engine into it. A patchwork monster despite the pretty exterior. A Chimaera. 

It rolled away into the distance, and Vincent got himself a drink.

It had been okay to talk to him. You could nearly imagine that nothing had ever happened. He could almost wonder. If the kid had been wrong, if he’d been wrong. If he hadn’t seen it himself, the marks over his son’s soft body--

But he had. And he’d seen the look in Sebastian’s eyes last Saturday, when Vincent had left him at the barbecue.

There was no mistaking that. 

Ciel got home at 3:37, and Vincent didn’t mention Sebastian at all. There wasn’t any point.

He had to start this somehow, though. 

He waited until after dinner.

Ciel was lying curled up on the sofa. His phone was on the cushion between his tucked-up legs, but he was reading. An actual book. 

Vincent paused at the end of the couch.

‘Hey. What’s the book?’

Ciel shrugged. ‘ _Blood of the Walsungs_.’ 

‘Is it fantasy?’

‘Thomas Mann.’

‘Oh.’ Of course it was. ‘ _Oh._ ’ Vincent considered. ‘For school?’

‘It was on your shelf.’

There was a lot of shit in the bookshelf; he’d had a lot of time to read, years ago. Rachel had always read a lot. He hadn’t seen Ciel pick up a book in a long time, though.

‘Yeah?’ Vincent folded his arms. ‘What’s it about? Have you finished it yet?’

It was only a short story. He'd finish it tonight.

‘It’s cool.’ Ciel turned a page. ‘It’s old. Like mansions-and-no-electricity old. It’s about twins. A brother and sister, and they’re smarter than everyone else.’

‘Yeah,’ said Vincent. _It’s about twins, and they’re smarter than everyone else, and they go to see a Wagner opera, and then they fuck on their bedroom floor._

He didn’t say this. The kid hadn’t finished the story yet; and he might miss the subtext anyway. It wasn’t as explicit as a modern story might be. 

He’d never believed in censorship. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted Ciel to understand this story or not.

‘Why’d you pick that one?’

Ciel waved the book. ‘It had diamonds on the cover. It looked okay.’

‘Yeah?’

‘And I heard it was good.’

_Oh. Where? From who?_

Vincent knew already, and he felt the jet of heat in his belly as he bent over the back of the couch. He folded his arms on it.

‘How are you doing?’

‘Fine.’ Ciel was reading again.

‘Has your ass stopped stinging yet?’

Ciel’s lips parted. Closed again. He didn’t raise his eyes from the page. 

‘You need to tell me if it doesn’t heal up,’ Vincent continued. ‘You have to take care of your body.’

And now he’d mentioned it, and the world hadn’t ended, and Ciel was listening. Flushing hot and red, but listening. 

‘That was too rough for you. Saturday. You were pretty marked up.’ _Even before I undressed you. Before I ever touched you._ Vincent didn’t say this either. He kept his voice level. ‘Did that happen a lot with him?’

Ciel rubbed his thumb over the spine of his book. ‘Not like that.’ His voice was small.

‘Other times, then.’ Vincent spoke calmly. He rested his chin on his folded arms on the couch, watching the kid beneath him. Watching the movement of the small hot face. ‘How often was it?’

‘Not much.’

‘How many times?’ Quietly.

‘I don’t-- mhm-- like four?’

That couldn’t be true. It might be true.

‘Where? Where did you go?’

‘We didn’t.’ The kid was just whispering. ‘His car.’

That car. That fucking car, it was only a two-seater. It was a fucking convertible. It had a centre console between the seats, there was no room.

‘You don’t--’ Vincent tried again. ‘You did it in his car?’

‘It wasn’t many times.’ Ciel didn’t raise his eyes. He pulled the cushion up from his legs and wrapped his arms over it. Pressed his chin into it. ‘I sat on his lap.’

Vincent was silent. He really shouldn’t have asked. And now he was thinking about it, and he couldn’t ask anything else. 

‘Right.’ He stood up, stretched his shoulder, and he knew Ciel was watching him now, waiting to see his reaction.

But Ciel had told him. He didn’t have to tell him anything, and Vincent didn’t want to get mad at him for this. This is what he’d wanted. He knew he’d have to be careful.

‘Right. You want some cookies?’

Ciel blinked. ‘Okay.’

That was it. It was easy.

Vincent came back to the couch with a plastic container full of cookies, and plumped it down on the kid’s lap. ‘Go crazy.’

Ciel grinned up at him. ‘How many?’

‘Whatever you want.’ 

The blue eyes sharpened. ‘I want milk.’

‘Well. Okay.’ Vincent shook his head. And went to get the milk. He called back over his shoulder. ‘Okay, that’s fair. Next time you get off your lazy ass and get it yourself, though. I do everything around here.’ He brought a glass of milk in, and Ciel took it with both hands. His mouth was full of cookie already.

‘Say thank-you.’

‘ _Mnhh_ -hn.’ Ciel glared.

‘Say thank you or I’ll have to spank you, honey.’

Ciel grinned. And sprayed chocolate-chip crumbs over himself, and Vincent smiled too.

‘Christ, baby. What did you do?’

He bent and brushed off the kid’s pajama shirt. And under the neck of it.

Ciel jumped. ‘It tickles. It _tickles_. Shit--’

‘Hey,’ said Vincent. ‘No swearing, now.’

Ciel sputtered under him. It took Vincent a moment to realise he was laughing. 

‘Bullshit,’ said Ciel. His little teeth looked sharp when he smiled. ‘You swear all the time. You can’t tell me--’

‘Yeah,’ said Vincent, and clamped his hand over Ciel’s mouth. ‘I can. No swearing.’

Ciel wriggled again and knocked the hand away. ‘How come? That’s not fair. If you can, I can.’

Vincent sat down on the couch beside him, and picked a chocolate chip off the cushion. ‘It’s not fair.’ He glanced at Ciel. ‘But it’s life. It's my rules. There are things I don’t want you doing until you’re older. And I don’t want you to swear.’

He leaned in and kissed his son’s cheek lightly. 

Ciel turned into the kiss, his eyes narrowed. ‘What can I do, then?’ He wasn’t smiling. ‘What am I allowed to do?’

Vincent felt himself stir. That small sulky face. That mouth. ‘What do you want to do, baby?’ He pulled the kid closer to him. ‘What is it you want to do?’

Ciel didn’t say anything. He turned his face into Vincent’s shoulder, and his warm fingers curled around Vincent’s wrist. And he guided his daddy’s hand down between them, between his own legs, and Vincent felt the hot sigh of breath against his shirt.

He pressed his hand into the plump baby bulge. ‘Yeah?’ he whispered against Ciel’s hair. ‘Is this what you want?’

He hadn’t asked yet. If Ciel knew they shouldn’t do this. He didn’t want to go too hard, and ask too much, and now he didn’t want to ask anything.

‘Yeah.’ Ciel breathed out. He was kneeling up on the couch. Bucking slowly against Vincent’s palm. ‘Can we, daddy?’

Vincent slipped his fingers inside Ciel’s shorts. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If it makes you happy, honey.’

He took Ciel’s cock in his own hand. He could hardly squeeze it. Not hard enough to ease the heat in his own back, his own body. 

He bent low to kiss the soft heaving belly, tugging the shorts all the way down. He could smell fresh skin. And he shuffled lower and kissed the shiny head of Ciel’s cock, and wrapped his lips around it.

Ciel squeaked. 

And Vincent almost laughed. He’d never had a dick in his mouth before. 

Ciel let go, moved his hands away. Put both of them on Vincent's shoulders. 

And this would be easy. So easy. Vincent knew exactly what Ciel would want. 

Wet, deep, working it slowly. He tightened his lips around the baby cock. Sucked hard on the firm jut of it, and he felt the kid’s stomach shaking against his forehead.

Ciel was panting already. Open-mouthed. Every breathy noise pumped through Vincent’s blood. He closed his eyes.

Ciel tasted warm and sweet. The length of Vincent’s tongue, filling his mouth. None of the tang of an adult’s body. 

‘Ah. Yeah--’ Whispered above him. Ciel was thrusting. Grinding closer. Finding his own rhythm, jumpy and impatient, and Vincent smiled around his cock. He cupped Ciel’s little ass closer. Pressed his fingers into it, deep in the soft cheeks, squeezing. 

The kid was so small Vincent could almost fit the thickened tuck of his balls in, too. 

He tried it, carefully, and he was rewarded. Ciel was wriggling.

‘Unh,’ said Ciel. ‘ _Unhh_. Ha. Daddy.’

And Vincent felt it quiver between his lips before Ciel came, before the salt warmed the back of his tongue and he swallowed it. Only a drop. 

He let the mouthful of wet flesh ease out of his mouth.

Ciel flopped down onto the couch. His soft face was flushed red enough to strike a match off. And his lips were still parted, and Vincent leaned over him. Kissed the tip of his nose. 

And Ciel sighed, a shudder. ‘Thank you, daddy.’

Vincent tugged Ciel’s shorts back up. ‘No, you--’ He kissed the kid’s soft hair. Ciel’s eyes were so blue. Unguarded. It curled up in Vincent’s belly. ‘You don’t have to thank me. This is for you. My baby. My baby--’

Ciel leaned in and hugged him. Warm and silent. 

And Vincent picked him up, heavy in both arms, this leggy boy, and carried him up the carpeted stairs. To his bedroom, to Ciel’s own room and his own bed and the unmade mess of blankets and the plush pink turtle toy.

He settled the kid in comfortably. 

And went to bed.

And in his own quiet room he could finally think. About the salt taste of his kid’s body and the glisten of those wide eyes. About his son in Sebastian’s lap, in Sebastian’s car, that smooth black monstrous car with the hood pulled up and Ciel tucked up under there, his little legs spread to warm Sebastian’s cock.

Vincent came in his fist, a bitter mess.

  


*****

  


Ciel slept through his alarm on Thursday. 

Vincent heard him rushing between the bedroom and bathroom, a slamming of distant doors. 

He was pouring himself a second coffee when the kid came thumping down the stairs. 

‘You’re going to be late.’

‘Nuh-uh.’ Ciel scooped up his water bottle. ‘I walk fast.’

‘Bullshit, you’re lazy as hell.’

And Ciel tipped up his pointed little face, cute and crooked, and stuck out his tongue. ‘Yeah? I cleaned up my room like you said.’

‘Lazy,’ said Vincent. ‘Lazy brat.’ And he bent to kiss the boy at the kitchen doorway, pushed his tongue into the sulky little mouth. ‘Mhm, you taste like lipgloss.’

Ciel sputtered. ‘You taste like shit. _Coffee_ \--’

‘Yeah?’ Vincent caught him by the shoulders. Pushed him against the wall and kissed him again. Ciel went soft and slow under his mouth. Open, panting, and Vincent pulled away to sigh at him. ‘Don’t get me hard, baby, you’ve got to go now.’

Ciel licked his lips and pulled up the strap of his bag. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Later. Later--’

It sounded like a promise.

Vincent kissed him one last time. Quiet on his forehead. 

And then the kid was gone with a thump of heels and a door-slam, and Vincent went slowly upstairs and got dressed. 

He got through the day okay. It wasn’t too bad. His boss was a dick, but any boss would be. The work was too easy. But it left him time to think. He’d take Ciel shopping on Saturday. And take Annika-from-the-supermarket out somewhere. And if Sebastian tried to turn up again he wouldn’t let the fucker in his house.

Ciel was home on time. 

They had grilled chicken for dinner, and Ciel came down in time to set the table, and it was nice. It was the closest thing to normal that Vincent had felt for a while. It had been a good day.

And he’d bought a French vanilla cheesecake on the way home from the office and Ciel now was eyeing it hungrily at the open fridge door.

‘Not yet, you just ate. Shower first.’

‘I’ve got _room._ ’ 

‘Shower first, honey.’ Vincent patted his kid away from the fridge, holding the door open with his foot; he was putting the leftover chicken away, the plastic-wrapped tray in one hand and his wine-glass in the other. ‘I’m waiting too. Quick, now.’

Ciel went upstairs, huffing.

Vincent tidied up the benchtops. The grill.

His phone buzzed; probably Annika. He leaned over to check.

Not his phone; Ciel’s glitter-cased one was over by the fruit bowl, and it buzzed again.

Vincent dried his hands on the dishcloth and finished the last of the wine in his glass, and picked up Ciel’s phone. There was a lockscreen, though, an anime girl with blue hair; a swipe pattern, and Vincent put the phone back down.

Ciel had locked his phone. That was new. 

Not that it mattered. Vincent had been the one who set it up for him. Vincent’s email address.

He finished loading the dishwasher.

Then he got his own phone and unlocked Ciel’s screen. 

He swiped through the notifications. Pokemon Go. Youtube. Discord.

And he paused on that one when he saw the username on the screen: _blueheavencrush._ Which would almost be cute if Ciel wasn’t using a selfie as his profile pic. Stupid fucking kid.

The most recent chat was from tonight.

  


_ttyl_

_I’m counting on it._

_miss u_

_I know._

  


The other user’s pfp was bright, punchy, some pop art thing. As obnoxious as an ad. The user name was _dubium._

Vincent scrolled back up, and he looked for a while at the screen. The most recent conversation.

  


_dad said i cant_

_I know._

_can i see u_

_I’m working._

_Its fucked_

_I know._

_im bored_

_I know._

_can i see u_

_No._

_i called_

_I won’t answer._

_can i send u smth_

_Yes_

Ciel had sent Dubium a selfie, his sulky face. Sticking his tongue out. And his middle finger, with its glitter of pink nail-polish.

And Dubium had replied.

_Charming._

Vincent knew the precise tone of that voice.

And this was where it ended.

_im bored_

_So I gathered._

_ttyl_

_I’m counting on it._

_miss u_

_I know._

Vincent scrolled further back. Endless. Endless. Ciel used emojis. Dubium did not. 

They spoke every day. 

Or had been.

Last week. Another selfie. Ciel’s eyes were half-closed. He was sucking his thumb.

_Oh? Baby._

_want u_

_I’ve told you before._

_k lol_

And Ciel had sent another photo. A shot of his legs flopped over the arm of the couch, slim and bare, and his teddy bear propped between them.

_Not here._

_hey its not nudes_

_Not here._

_now u_

_I’m at work._

_chicken shit_

_I’ll spank you for that._

_fuck you send it_

_Oh. Do you kiss your daddy with that mouth?_

_if u were here id kiss u now_

_If I were there, I’d find something else to keep your mouth busy._

wink emoji from Ciel. And then

_i got some eye shadow_

_Ah, can I see?_

_k snapchat_

  


Vincent cleared his throat. He scrolled up again. Back. This one was 2am. Last week.

  


_i want u_

_Do you, now?_

_after school_

_I’ll be waiting._

  


Where, outside? In his car? His stupid fucking two-door car, not made for children. 

It was worse. Worse than a girl’s diary. Vincent wanted to laugh. The sordid journal of his son’s fuckery.

There wasn’t any point in asking Ciel for his Snapchat account.

Except that a kid dumb enough to forget that his daddy could unlock his phone might be dumb enough to forget to clear his camera roll.

Vincent checked it. His fingers were cold.

There were photos. And yeah. This was what he’d been expecting. Ciel in his bed, in the midst of his homework, pulling up his t-shirt. That wasn’t too bad, but the next one-- 

Vincent chewed on his lip. 

Ciel had propped the phone somewhere, on books or something on his bed, and his legs were spread wide. His dick showing hard beneath his white underwear, his t-shirt. And the next. Bare thighs. And the curve of his ass, and his pointed face looking back over his shoulder

And then pictures of birds. Of bicycles.

Vincent moved quickly through the phone folders.

There was a file labelled _studio portraiture CVP._

Vincent breathed in. And out. A shudder.

The first photo was Ciel, his naked body trussed. Kneeling on the floor. Delicate skin, sheeny pale stockings, plum-coloured silken cords. Like lace across his narrow chest, the intricate knots, his arms bound high above his head. Wrapped down his body, between his spread thighs, crossed beneath the helpless squish of his cock.

And Vincent looked again. The boy’s tired eyes, sullen. The pout of his glistening mouth. 

The lighting was perfect.

Perfect, and the backdrop was a teal-coloured muslin drop. Art-school fucking sidelights. He’d know that fucking pretentious aesthetic anywhere. The bastard had used his fucking studio. 

Another shot. A close-up. The swell of his son’s thigh was bruised. 

Another shot. Light glittering in the mark of tears, the dribble over his parted lips.

Another shot. The bound hands, twined together. The cords, purple against delicate baby skin. 

Another shot. The rosy jut of his cock, his soft balls pressed between the crossed bindings.

Another shot. No, a video, and Vincent’s jaw ached from clenching as he pressed _play_ on the screen.

It was only Ciel’s face, pale against the fabric on the floor, framed in the dark fall of his long hair, and for a heartbeat Vincent was almost relieved. 

And then he saw the roll of his boy’s eyes, the panting mouth, and heard his noises. The high sounds, continuous, breathy in his open throat.

Saw the shift of Ciel’s head against the floor. Rhythmic.

And Vincent pressed the screen again, shaking, and looked down at the phone. 

He held it for a long time.

And then he filled his wine glass. Quietly, steadily. 

And he took the glass, and took the phone, and went into the living room to wait for his son.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the delicious [Lush](https://lushslug.tumblr.com/) for the beta! 
> 
> I'm not sure when I will update again; I don't have a schedule for this one. August, probably. In the meantime, come and ask or comment or rant [on Twitter or ](https://twitter.com/Amanitus_M/)[on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/amanitus) xx


	4. Red Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heck, it's been a while since I updated. But I was In A Mood so here it is.

When Ciel’s footsteps finally came downstairs, Vincent was waiting in the living room. Seated on the couch. 

The kid was still pulling on his t-shirt as he crossed the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen.

‘Dad.’ From beyond the open doorway. ‘Cheesecake.’

‘Soon.’

Pause. ‘Dad?’ It was a question now. 

‘What?’

‘Where’s my phone?’

‘In here.’

There was no answer. And then Ciel was standing at the doorway, his hands fidgeting, clean in his candy-striped pajamas. He wasn’t smiling.

Vincent tapped the sparkly phone on the coffee table next to him. ‘Do you want it back?’

‘Yeah.’ 

‘Come and sit down. Come over here and talk to me.’

Ciel came over slowly. He stopped a few steps away, and his bare toes were curling into the carpet.

Vincent rubbed his thumb down the stem of his wine glass. ‘You’ve been talking to Sebastian.’

Ciel folded his arms. He didn’t answer.

‘I told you. Didn’t I? You’re not going to see him any more.’

‘I wasn’t.’ 

‘I know you’re still talking to him.’ 

Ciel’s mouth twisted up.

‘What do you talk about?’

And Ciel rolled his eyes. So sharp, so pissed-off that Vincent growled. 

‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘Come and sit with me.’

Ciel flopped himself on the couch beside him, his arms still folded.

Vincent kept his voice level. ‘I’m trying to take care of you,’ he said. ‘I’m not the enemy here.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You let him take pictures of you?’

No answer.

‘That’s so stupid. Honey, that’s so fucking stupid, you can’t--’ 

‘I didn’t.’

‘Ciel. I saw it. And you were sending him stuff, you can’t just fucking deny it.’ The phone was a glitter in Vincent’s vision and he pushed it into Ciel’s hand. ‘So tell me about this.’

Just a selfie, spread over the corner of his bed, one knee tucked up. White sneakers, long white socks. Blue t-shirt cropped to show the hollow of his pale belly. And no shorts at all, just a stretch of pink lace over the plump swell of his balls. Pink _lace_.

Ciel’s chin hardened. ‘Yeah?’ Hoarse, cold. ‘What about it?’ 

‘What are you wearing there?’

‘I bought it.’

‘Where?’

Whispery. ‘Sebastian.’

‘He bought you stuff, huh.’

‘Sometimes.’

Keep going. Keep breathing through the edge, the fury.

‘How often were you seeing him?’

‘I don’t know. Every week, I guess.’

‘Fuck, _Ciel_ \--’ 

The boy flinched.

‘Fuck.’ Vincent stopped, stumbling. ‘You should have told me--’

Silence.

‘He was doing this to you, and--every week, and you never said anything--’

‘I was fine.’

‘You should have talked to me about it.’

‘Okay.’

‘I wouldn’t have been angry, I _know_ what he is. Fuck. Ciel--’

‘ _Okay_.’

‘This is my job. Taking care of you. Let me do my job. You think you’re ready for this shit but you can’t push things, you just--’ 

‘This is stupid,’ said Ciel. ‘Everyone at school is doing stuff. You can’t just _stop_ me.’

‘I can. I am. You want to be grounded for the rest of the year?’

Ciel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t care. I never get to go anywhere.’

This wasn’t working. Vincent put down his wine glass. 

He couldn’t lose his temper over this. He’d always been too direct with people; too harsh. Rachel had told him this. And none of this was Ciel’s fault. It was Sebastian, Sebastian--

He leaned over Ciel, and pulled the kid up onto his lap. Heavy, warm.

Ciel didn’t move, didn’t turn his head. Stiff in Vincent’s arms. Waiting tensely for it to be over.

Vincent breathed out slowly against the kid’s damp hair. ‘We’re just talking, honey,’ he said. ‘I’m not mad. But it’s better if you don’t message him any more. This has to end.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What he did to you. You know it’s illegal, right?’

Silence. 

He ran his hand down the kid’s back, long strokes. ‘You’re too young for that. He’s not allowed to do that. And you can tell him that, if he tries to talk to you any more.’

Silence.

‘But he won’t. He knows he’s not allowed.’ And Vincent would make sure of it. He’d lock the kid’s laptop tonight. Keep the phone for a while. He’d sort out Sebastian, and Ciel would have some time to think.

He leaned back on the couch so he could watch the kid’s face. ‘He was here yesterday.’ _And he was very fucking careful not to mention you._

Ciel turned his head. ‘He came here?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘What did he say?’

‘I don’t care what he says. I want to hear what you need to tell me.’

Silence.

‘He’s not going to be talking to you any more.’

‘He will.’ Flat, defiant.

‘You think he’s going to try?’

‘He will.’ Ciel’s eyes were damp. Bruised blue. 

And something seized up in Vincent’s throat. Something unravelled. ‘Did he--uh. Did he tell you he was in love with you, or something?’

Ciel didn’t answer. But he looked away. 

Vincent rubbed his temple. He could see what this thing must have been for Sebastian. But for Ciel, sitting here cold with his little pink mouth pinched up--

‘Shit,’ he said tiredly. ‘What did you think was going to happen? Where do you think it was going to go?’

‘I don’t _know._ ’ Low and miserable. ‘Don’t know, I didn’t--’ There was only a snuffle.

Ciel didn’t think of the future. Couldn’t even plan a month ahead, this stupid kid who never managed to save up his pocket money. 

Val had saved for a year and bought himself a mountain bike. But Ciel had spent every cent he had. Every week. Brief happiness; candy and coloured pencils.

It would have been too easy. Way too fucking easy for that bastard.

Vincent settled his hand on the kid’s hot knee. ‘That’s what he does. That’s how he treats people. It isn’t love. Did you think it was going to be some kind of relationship?’

Ciel’s mouth moved silently.

Vincent ignored it. ‘Because that was never going to happen. He doesn’t care about anyone except himself. He doesn’t care about truth or what’s right or what other people will think. He just says whatever will get him what he wants.’

He didn’t expect an answer now. Nobody likes hearing the truth. 

‘You should have told me what was going on. It’s my job to protect you. And I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry. So tell me, honey. Tell me what was going on with him.’

And it was slow. Painful, like squeezing water from a goddamn fistful of marble, but the kid began to tell him things. Twisting his hands together in his lap. Talking. Words. Scraps. Enough.

About the long weeks of summer when Sebastian had been here almost every weekend. 

_Just talking._

While Vincent had been in the kitchen grabbing another beer. Or mowing. Or cleaning out the goddamn pool for Ciel.

_But he was nice._

While the kid had been flopped sweating in the grass in his swim shorts, talking to his daddy’s friend.

And all those weekday afternoons this fall, two and a half hours between the school steps and their front door--where, in Sebastian’s car? And once at his apartment, apparently. His studio. Because the photos. And here in their _house_ , shit, when Vincent was working late--

_He was nice. I wanted to._

Of course Ciel wasn’t telling him everything. But it was enough. And Vincent could fill in the gaps. 

It seemed obvious now. Something clear, inevitable. He knew his friend. And he’d seen the guy work on other people over the years; the little touches, the words slipped in casually like warm fingers sliding under your clothes. Guiding; suggesting. Sebastian got every woman he wanted. And plenty he didn’t. 

And now Ciel.

The wine sat sourly in Vincent’s guts. He should have seen it, and he hadn’t seen anything at all.

He was quiet for a while when the kid trailed off. And then he cleared his throat. ‘So. With Mr Martin--’

‘One time.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. He didn’t even talk to me after that.’ Ciel’s mouth twisted. ‘Pretended I wasn’t there.’ 

Vincent could imagine. Not everyone could handle it, facing a kid again after you’d seen his eyes widened, his lips fastening around your cock.

‘Did Mr Martin make you do that?’

‘No. He didn’t really say much.’ Ciel rubbed his palm on his knee. ‘It just kind of happened.’

And that was almost understandable. How these things unroll sometimes. Nobody plans that. 

And God, he still needed to know--

There was no way around it. He needed to talk about _them_. And other things.

But it wasn’t the time. Because it wasn’t the same. Ciel was upset, and there’d be time for that tomorrow, and in the meantime his kid was slipping too far from him, closing up his pale little face like a sleepy flower. Distant, unreachable, and there’d be nothing left. 

If he yelled at Ciel again there’d be nothing left.

Vincent ran his hand down Ciel’s back. Around the curve of his rump. ‘It’s going to be okay. We’re going to have a good weekend. We should get some pizza tomorrow.’

‘Mhm.’

‘It’s bedtime, yeah?’

‘Okay.’

‘You can come in with me if you want.’

‘Yeah.’ The whisper broke in the middle. ‘I guess.’

Vincent wanted to carry him up. He thought that would be cute but Ciel was already pushing himself off his daddy’s lap and thumping up the stairs. The kid was only 5 foot whatever but he was fucking noisy when he was mad.

Vincent took his time cleaning up the kitchen. And brushing his teeth, and he was quiet when he went through his dimmed-down bedroom to take a shower.

And the kid was quiet in the bed when Vincent came back in; when he switched off the light and pulled back the covers. It was still quiet when he’d settled himself; enough for him to feel the small trembling of the mattress. There was a wet sniffle. 

Vincent listened for a while in the darkness, letting it fill his skin. Letting it sting his nerves. The kid was crying.

He pulled the covers back and felt for Ciel’s shoulders. Shaking, slim. The kid was turned face-down into the pillow. His back was warm under Vincent’s hands. His skin was soft under his t-shirt.

‘Baby.’

Ciel sobbed again.

Vincent raised himself on his elbow, and moved closer. He bent to kiss the back of Ciel’s neck. Shoulder. ‘Hey. I don’t want you getting upset, now.’

The voice under him was muffled. ‘Please, daddy--’

‘I’m here,’ said Vincent. ‘What’s wrong?’ His own cruelty sat steaming in his throat. Making the kid explain. But it hurt to see this. Firmness was the only way to manage this shit; Ciel didn’t know what was good for him. He didn’t know how to cut something poisonous out of his life.

‘Can I have my phone back?’

‘No. Maybe.’ Vincent curled his fingers into Ciel’s damp hair. ‘Maybe next week.’

‘But I need to--’ Small voice, small and high. ‘You can’t. You can’t just--’ and Ciel was crying again. 

Vincent let him. 

He rolled Ciel over slowly, finding him by touch. Shuffling the stiff back and tightly-folded little arms. When he leaned into the kid’s hot cheeks he felt the smudge of tears. His tangled hair. Ciel was still sobbing. Shivering. 

Vincent lay close against the warm flushed chest. He kissed softly over Ciel’s throat. 

He didn’t speak, though, when he settled his head beside Ciel’s on the pillow and felt the little hand push under his own. He didn’t speak as he stroked Ciel’s fingers, as he pulled the kid closer and wrapped his arms around him.

Vincent closed his eyes, feeling the small leap of Ciel’s heartbeat under his hand. Feeling his way through his own tight fury. Because even Ciel should understand how much that man had hurt him. He shouldn't be crying over him. This was a thing no father should have to comfort his kid over.

But this was his job, too. To be here. Sometimes there’s nothing you can say. 

It wasn’t difficult. He’d always been too good at saying nothing.

************

The next morning, Ciel was still in bed when Vincent came back dressed after his shower.

‘C’mon, school.’

‘Don’t wanna go.’

He bent and sighed into Ciel’s shoulder. ‘Honey. Sometimes it helps to stay busy. The day will go quicker. You got to get moving, now, I have to get to work.’ 

‘I’m tired. Please--’

‘It’s Friday. You can do it. And Sunday I’ll take you shopping. Will you be good for me?’

No answer. But Ciel was pulling himself slowly upright, and Vincent buckled on his watch and pretended not to notice the kid wiping his fist over his eyes.

‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘good. Shower, now.’

The kid looked okay when he came down later; his face was clean again. He wasn’t going to make a fuss about things this morning, and Vincent turned back to his breakfast.

Ciel drank a glass of milk. And he took a spoon and stood at the refrigerator, scooping out the cheesecake. Eating slowly. Avoiding the crust.

Vincent looked up from his phone as he finished up his coffee. ‘God damn, you didn’t even cut a slice.’

Ciel didn’t answer. He kicked the fridge door shut, sucking on the spoon, and Vincent looked away. 

‘Straight home after school.’

‘Nuh-uh. I’m staying at Maya’s tonight.’

Vincent frowned. ‘Yeah? No. You’re not staying anywhere, you haven’t asked.’

‘I asked last week. You said I could. I already packed my stuff.’

Vincent drained his coffee cup. ‘I’m calling Maya’s mom.’

He did, while he poured himself a second coffee, and winced at the woman’s high drawling voice. It all seemed okay, though; there were going to be a few kids there.

‘Yeah, they’re just having a little sleepover thing,’ she was saying. ‘I told them they can make cookies if they want.’ 

It was just a sleepover. Ciel had known Maya since elementary school. And he wouldn’t have his phone with him; there was no way he could talk to Sebastian. 

Vincent rubbed the bridge of his nose. This paranoia was sinking into his bones.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. Keep an eye on him.’

‘You betcha,’ said the woman brightly.

But he hadn’t been prepared for this, Ciel out tonight; he’d wanted to have another talk to him. 

There was too much left to say.

Vincent waited while the kid thumped around upstairs.

He got Ciel’s phone out of the top cupboard. Leaned against the kitchen bench. Ignoring the backlog of notifications, the occasional blip as he held it, and he opened Sebastian’s folder. He pressed play on the video again. 

And this time he made it six seconds in before he stopped it.

He stared at the paused screen. Ciel’s fluttering lashes. His open pink mouth. If the kid said those words, if he said it here. Irrevocably. 

_daddy_ \--

It was Friday. He was supposed to go into the office. He was dressed. His laptop was in the car.

But it was Friday, and Sebastian wouldn’t be heading to work until late afternoon; he’d have a single lecture after lunch and hang around his apartment all morning, lazy as fuck. Still sleeping, probably. Kind of pathetic for someone barely on the right side of forty. The guy was living in another world. 

A single man’s life.

Vincent dropped Ciel at school, right out the front, and watched his son ascend the concrete steps. Soft-haired, bright-faced, swinging his ass in his tight jean shorts. An angel in suburbia. 

And Vincent turned left at the overpass and headed into St. Paul.

He didn’t need to think. This wasn’t about thinking. Only about the smooth unfolding of the road, the loops and curves, the buzz of the stereo he wasn’t listening to. The visual percussion of the davit poles, curved; the reflector strips, the bank and hum of the car.

River. Bridge. City. Street. Glitter of glass apartment, and he parked. 

The elevator up to the third floor smelled like bleach.

He didn’t have a plan, because there wouldn’t be any point. Plans are for business. Traps are for animals. With Sebastian, you could only throw a knife and hope.

And this was Sebastian’s door, and he knocked. 

It was silent inside. 

He knocked again, and hit the buzzer. 

And this time there was a click. The clunk of the deadlock, and Sebastian opened the door. Heavy-eyed, his white shirt unbuttoned. Jeans. He’d been asleep. 

Even barefoot, Sebastian was as tall as he was. Vincent met the man’s gaze squarely. And the answering glance took him in swiftly, head to toe and back, a quick shift over his polished shoes. His suit.

Vincent had been prepared for the door to slam closed again. 

But he’d been right; the man was sure of himself. Confident. Stepping back from the door to let Vincent in.

‘Well,’ said Sebastian. ‘Come on in.’

And the clean cold apartment was empty, at least; the folding screen was pulled back from the corner where the bed lay, a low dark futon thing with the covers half dragged off. The open bar kitchen was a mess, stacked dishes and wine-glasses.

The rest was exactly as Vincent knew it: the vast wall of white behind him, and the solitary artwork on it; that Pop Art collage thing. The bare wall of glass behind the bed and its view out over the river. The studio door on the left. The floor, pale timber on the right and checkerboard tiles in the kitchen.

Vincent pushed away an empty coffee mug on the dining table before he sat down.

Sebastian yawned. He didn’t button his shirt. He didn’t tidy the kitchen bench. He didn’t do anything that might show he was uncomfortable, surprised, unready. He only pulled out a chair, and sat, and ran his hand through his hair.

And sniffed. ‘Fucking nine am. Who died?’

Vincent wasn’t here for this. ‘Don’t fuck me around. I saw what’s on Ciel’s phone.’

Sebastian looked at him. And stood up again. 

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need coffee for this one.’

He made two. Silently, moving around the kitchen looking for the sugar, his jeans slung too low on his narrow hips. 

He brought the steaming mugs back over and this time, when he sat down, he rubbed his neck slowly.

Vincent let him speak first. 

Sebastian would always speak first.

‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘Go ahead.’

‘What?’ Vincent didn’t move.

‘Tell me what you’re here for.’ Sebastian sat back in his seat. He looked tired but his dark eyes were steady. ‘You looked at his phone. Presumably you have some questions.’ 

‘I saw the video.’ Vincent swallowed at the heat in his throat. ‘I saw the photos, the ones you took of him. I saw everything on his phone. And shit, I’ve known you for a long time. But you think I won’t end you over this?’

‘Yeah,’ said Sebastian. ‘Yeah, that was stupid. I shouldn't have shown him that. I asked him not to store it on his phone.’ He sipped. And waited.

Vincent curled his hand around the hot mug. He hadn’t even known what Sebastian might try. Denial, deflection. A joke. But this.

‘You’re going to tell me what happened with him.’

‘Ah.’ The man’s mouth twisted. ‘You want to _know._ ’

‘Of course I do. I have a right to know what the fuck happened to my kid--’ Vincent stopped. And began again. ‘I know most of it.’ He had to keep his head straight, his voice level. ‘He told me. But I want to hear your side of things.’

Sebastian’s expression was strange. ‘You’re giving me a chance to redeem myself?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, even you can’t squirm out of this shit heap. But I’m going to enjoy watching you try. So. Where did it start?’ The coffee wasn’t helping his throat. Bitter, tannic. ‘When did you start on him?’

‘You’ll have to be more specific, there. When did I notice him, or when did he notice me?’

Vincent’s hand curled into a fist beneath the table. But the other one, loose on the table, he could control that. He had a right to ask these things. ‘Both, Sebastian.’ He said his friend’s name carefully.

‘I never laid a finger on him until this summer.’

‘And you fucked him.’

Sebastian paused. ‘It was mutual.’

‘He’s thirteen.’ Vincent breathed out. ‘Christ. You knew him when he was born.’

‘I knew _you_ when you still thought Evelyn Waugh was a woman. What’s your point?’

‘The point is,’ said Vincent, ‘he’s a kid.’

‘He approached me,’ said Sebastian. And he folded his hands as though the conversation was over.

‘I trusted you. You know that?’

‘Well.’ The man raised his eyebrows. ‘I should hope you did.’

‘He cared about you. I mean--you used to visit.’

‘I still care about him.’

‘ _You_ are a fucking monster.’

‘I have always adored him,’ said Sebastian. ‘Always.’

Vincent looked at him. ‘That’s not making things better.’

‘Oh,’ said Sebastian. ‘Not as you think I mean it.’ He smiled, quietly. He really shouldn’t have smiled. ‘Not as _you_ are capable of adoring.’

Vincent sat up straight. ‘Don’t you fucking start with me. Don’t try to tell me what I’m capable of.’

‘Alright.’ Sebastian’s tone was too reasonable for this. ‘Alright, Vincent. Tell me what you’re capable of.’

‘I know how to protect my family. That’s a start.’

‘That’s why you won’t let him see me?’

‘I’m not an idiot.’

‘I see,’ said Sebastian. ‘Are you sleeping with him?’

Vincent opened his mouth. Closed it again. ‘Fuck off. It’s none of your business.’ Not what he’d planned to say. But he had wondered for an empty second if Sebastian meant just that: _sleeping._ He leaned forward in his seat. ‘You’re still calling him.’

‘No. Only texts, nobody under thirty calls anyone these days. But yes. Of course I’m trying to keep in touch with him. I want to see how he is.’

‘He’s messed up. And _any_ problems he has are because of you. What you did to him. So don’t go acting like you care. You make a habit of banging school kids?’

‘Don't be crude, Vincent.’ Sebastian’s gaze was bright black. ‘You know he’s different. He’s different.’

And Vincent knew it. He’d seen it. Ciel pausing on the sidewalk, bending over to straighten the lacy tops of his socks. But it didn’t help that Sebastian had seen it too.

‘You piece of shit.’ He breathed out hard. ‘Keeping this shit some kind of a secret, behind my back--’

‘You think I should have asked your permission?’

‘I think you should have _not fucking done it_ in the first place.’

‘Hm.’ Sebastian sipped.

Vincent shifted in his seat. He was being direct. But this didn’t feel like throwing knives. It felt like flipping coins down a waterfall, a flash before they vanished. ‘So I guess you don’t plan on apologizing.’

‘I’m sorry.’ A thoughtful arch of Sebastian’s brows. ‘I’m truly sorry. It must have been a shock for you. Perhaps I should have been more open.’

And Vincent had about two breaths left in him before he stood up and ended this. ‘That’s not the problem. And you know it. You know he’s not old enough to consent to anything.’

‘That’s debatable.’

‘It’s not subjective, you stupid fuck. It’s the law.’

‘In some countries. In some centuries. I think that sounds fairly subjective, don’t you?’

‘Shut up. Right now. Right _now_ , I said--’ Because the man was opening his mouth again and Vincent’s hands were shaking. ‘Do you think you’re innocent here?’

‘I think,’ said Sebastian, ‘that Ciel is more capable than you give him credit for. He’s bright. And he’s determined. I never did anything he didn’t want. And maybe that’s the thing you don’t want to hear.’ He pushed the mug away from him and folded his hands on the table. ‘You can think whatever you want about me. But I’d like to know he’s safe. How is he taking everything?’

‘He’s still handling school. For now.’ Vincent paused. Slow, unwilling. ‘But he’s a mess.’ He looked at the swirl of his coffee. And up at Sebastian. ‘It’s hard to know what to do with him.’

‘Exactly.’ Sebastian’s gaze lowered to the table. ‘Nobody blames you.’

‘He doesn’t want to talk to me. But he’s still spending time with his friends and I think that’s a good thing. He’s not isolating himself. He probably needs them at the moment.’

Because what, the kid was going through a breakup? Which was fucked up. But the closest thing to truth. 

‘Yeah,’ said Sebastian, ‘I think that’s a good thing. Sometimes he’s too quiet when he’s upset.’

‘Yeah?’ Vincent looked at him. ‘I guess you know him pretty well now.’

Sebastian looked back evenly. Dark brown eyes, flat and serious. ‘In some things. He’s always been like that.’

‘Yeah. Well, he’s still too quiet. I mean I don’t expect him to explain himself, he isn’t the one at fault here.’ His mouth felt dry. ‘But I need him to know he can talk about things. And you’ve made him shut down completely.’

Sebastian was silent. ‘Ciel’s secretive,’ he said finally. ‘He has a bright imagination but there are things he won’t tell anyone. You know he’s stubborn.’

‘They both were,’ said Vincent. ‘In different ways.’

‘Yeah, that’s true. And feeling left behind wouldn’t make it easier for him to open up. Maybe he’s more like you than you think.’

‘He’s a lot like Rachel.’ Vincent shrugged. ‘But Rachel was never so irrational. He just does whatever the hell he wants. He’s smart but he just--’ He paused. 

‘Yeah,’ said Sebastian. 

Sebastian knew, too. Maybe he was the only other one who had any idea. What Ciel was, how impossible this situation was.

Vincent sipped his coffee. He’d come here for answers. To talk. And they were talking. 

Sebastian tapped his fingers on the side of his empty mug. ‘I’d like to see him again.’

‘Not going to happen.’

‘I’d really like to. And I think Ciel would like it too.’

‘You’re not coming near the house again. Or the fucking school, or-- holy _fuck._ Listen to yourself.’

‘I want to see him. That’s all. It doesn’t matter where, and it doesn’t have to be alone. Stay in the room if you want. I’m not trying to hide anything. But I’d like to see him.’

Vincent settled back in his chair. ‘What do you want to say to him?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m not sure what he needs to hear. But I don’t think cutting him off like this is going to help him. Not if he’s having trouble.’

Ciel’s sobs, wet on his pillow. 

Vincent frowned. ‘No. I mean, I can’t just let you back into his life. I need to think about this shit.’

‘Of course.’ Sebastian’s face was gathered. ‘You need to do what you think is right.’ He pushed his chair back with a sigh, hooking the empty mugs with his thumb, and carried them over to the kitchen bench.

Vincent stood up too.

He’d said what he needed to say. They were talking about it. But he didn’t have answers. He still couldn’t reconcile this thing, this impossibility. Memory and truth. His friend’s quiet hands under the running tap, and the bruises on his son’s thighs. 

He stood at the kitchen bench, his eyes moving over the dirty plates and Venetian glass fruit-bowl. The wine glasses and loose change.

The tube of lipgloss. Cherry glitter.

Vincent’s stomach curled up. ‘Ciel was here.’

Sebastian looked back over his shoulder. ‘Once or twice.’

Vincent tried to speak. And again. ‘Is that so?’ And he’d known Ciel must have been here. The photographs. But it hadn’t felt real, hadn’t prickled under his collar until he was standing here. In this man’s apartment.

He stepped around the bench and stopped, two steps away from Sebastian. One step. His eyes ached. ‘You need to tell me everything. How it happened. The first time--’

‘You want to know.’ Sebastian shrugged. ‘I suppose people are all voyeurs in the end. _And_ a masochist; I wouldn’t have guessed.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You can’t control him forever. He’s old enough to decide what he wants.’

‘Tell me. _Fuck_ you. Tell me why you’d _do_ such a---’

‘Fine.’ Sebastian turned, leaning back against the sink. ‘It’s a simple story, Vincent. It’s the usual story. He was looking at me, and I noticed, and he was happy to get some attention.’

‘And?’

‘He’s a good-looking kid. It was going to happen eventually.’ Sebastian turned back to rinse out the mugs. ‘The first time. Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Hoarsely.

‘Which?’ Sebastian smiled. A slow strange smile. ‘The first time I took him for a drive after school? Or the first time he let me kiss him?’ He settled his hands on the bench. ‘But you don’t mean that. You want to know about the sex.’

‘Don’t you start with me--’

‘The first time I opened him up, that’s what you mean. The first time I was inside him and showed him how to move. Yes?’

Vincent couldn’t breathe. His chest, his shoulder. His palms burned. He curled up his hands.

And Sebastian’s eyes were too bright. ‘The first time he tasted me. And the first time I pushed my tongue into his ass and heard him grunting for it. The first time I fucked him screaming through an orgasm--’ 

Vincent hit him. 

It ached through his arm. His knuckles.

Sebastian put his hand to his jaw. His eyes were sharp. ‘Shit.’ Muffled. ‘You _do_ have an anger issue, don’t you?’

Vincent hit him again. This time in the nose. He waited until Sebastian had stopped gasping. Until the man had raised the back of his hand to press the tears from his eyes, his top lip smeared with blood. 

‘You’re handsy when you’re mad.’

Vincent’s hands shook. ‘You need to stop talking.’

‘Do you always do this?’ Sebastian’s voice was still low. But it had every edge of its usual contempt. ‘Do you always break things when you lose your temper?’

And Vincent didn’t even realise he’d moved again until he stumbled over Sebastian’s foot and shit, the bench, shit--

They hit the floor. 

‘Fuck--’ Vincent growled, breathless. Sharp elbow in his stomach. And he steadied himself, palm on the ground

‘Tsk.’ Sebastian’s chest was hot under his own. ‘You predictable piece of shit.’ His eyes were narrowed, steady. ‘You break things. You throw tantrums like a child. No discipline.’

‘You--’ Vincent pressed his forearm into the man’s throat. ‘ _Fuck_ you.’

Sebastian choked. ‘This is what you do to Ciel.’ Gravelly. ‘This is what you do, isn’t it?’

‘You need to shut up.’

‘Or what? Are you going to fuck me too?’

Vincent’s stomach squirmed cold. He hung over Sebastian, shaking with the need to breathe. The need to press his knee into the man’s chest until he heard the ribs crack. 

He couldn’t speak.

And Sebastian smiled. ‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘Before I make you do something you regret.’

Vincent pushed himself off the man. Back onto his heels, and he wiped his mouth. ‘You can’t make me do shit.’ 

Sebastian was gasping now. Ragged breaths. ‘Hmm--’ But he was laughing. ‘Ciel told me what you did to him. It’s in writing. I can show it to your boss tomorrow morning. I can make you do whatever the fuck I want.’

Vincent’s stomach churned. He had to leave.

And he did, getting to his feet. Holding onto the bench to steady himself. 

Table. Door.

The cold concrete air of the stairs, because he couldn’t step into the blank elevator and wait. Not right now.

The echo of steps felt good in his head. 

And he was back on the road and weaving through the morning traffic before he breathed for long enough to think. To regret.

‘Should have broken his fucking spine,’ he said in the silent car. 

**************

Vincent drove around for half an hour, pretending he was looking for a coffee, and then he went into work after all. There was no point going home.

He unpacked his laptop and chewed on the end of his pen.

He ignored the glances from Campbell at his desk in the corner. _Yes, goddamn you, I’m two hours late today. Nice Converse, did you borrow those from your daughter?_

And he worked.

Not everyone can focus when they’re under stress. It’s a useful skill. It was on his resume.

But the thing they don’t tell you is that a mind won’t power down, and by the time he stopped for lunch he had an uncomfortable headache.

Sebastian must be feeling insecure. To feel the need to threaten him, to stir him up like that. And it had worked. He was stirred up. But Sebastian had known exactly what to say, of course.

He should have stayed in control; he shouldn’t have hit the guy. Or he should have killed him. No half-measures. No more of this in-between, this uncertainty that seemed to drift around Sebastian like smog; it was contagious. It made you question things. It was attack and evasion at the same time.

Vincent unwrapped his sandwich. He’d managed to answer a whole day’s worth of emails already; this shit was too simple, a waste of his time.

This wasn’t where he’d planned to be at this point in his life. 

The bread was soggy, and he felt obliged to remind himself of this: he hadn’t planned to be here.

He’d be running his own business now if things were still on track. 

But he’d put his ideas on hold when Rachel went on tour with the orchestra and he’d been happy to do it. She cared about her music and she deserved it; she hadn’t made a fuss when he wanted to trade in the car instead of remodelling the ensuite bathroom like they’d talked about.

And then things stalled, with the accident. And for the whole last year, last two years, nothing had been as he’d planned.

There was no plan. He just worked. 

Vincent finished the sandwich and reached for his phone. Because the house was going to be empty tonight.

Annika texted him back: she was free, she said. And happy to come over tonight, rather than meet up to watch football on Sunday; a shortcut to where they were heading anyway.

Which was a relief. His shoulders were tight again and he didn’t want to wait.

And he could think about the other shit tomorrow. When Ciel was home again.

Vincent was relaxed on the drive home. While he stopped at the liquor store. While he turned on the tv in the empty living room, and rummaged in the freezer for dinner. He had nothing to worry about. Sebastian could say whatever he wanted. It was manageable. 

Vincent had the photographs. And the smug fucker only had Ciel’s word that Vincent had done anything. Just words, even if he believed it. 

But Ciel, Ciel had told him?

Vincent slammed the fridge door closed.

The kid was too naïve. He didn’t understand the mind of somebody like Sebastian, he’d have no defences against that kind of manipulation. He’d tell the guy anything if he was asked.

This wasn’t Ciel’s fault. 

Exactly why he’d taken the phone away from him.

Vincent took his glass of wine onto the deck, listening to the distant hum of traffic. He was relaxed. Sebastian wasn’t about to drag that kind of thing into public view; it was only a threat. He would go and see Sebastian again next week when he’d had time to think. No more reactions, no more impulses. And for now, this was fine. He could breathe again.

The girl wouldn’t be here for hours.

Vincent loosened his tie. What did he usually do on a Friday night?

Restaurant. But there was frozen spaghetti sauce defrosting on the bench.

Gym. He wasn’t in the mood.

Groceries. Could wait until tomorrow.

He could go for a run; but he usually went with Sebastian. Four laps around the community park. Twenty minutes of standing beside the car afterwards, talking shit. And on Sunday afternoons the man would drop around to sit here on their deck, a quiet drink before the week began again. 

Vincent half-closed his eyes, watching the evergreen hedging move with the wind. It was sickening how deeply twined Sebastian’s life was in theirs. A twist of ivy between the stones of something solid. It had to be dragged out. 

And it was an uneasy twist in Vincent’s stomach, the hollow wreckage that would be left behind it.

The absolute pointlessness of everything.

He got up to call Maya’s mom at half-past six and spent ten minutes standing in the kitchen, looking at his phone. 

It was stupid to call. Ciel would be there, would be safe, and he’d end up looking like some clueless dick. The school moms already seemed to think he was struggling and he didn’t need that flavour of bored housewifely pity. But he needed to know the kid was there. 

Stupid to think he’d ever worried about Ciel staying over at Maya’s. Or at Olivia’s; or even Jackson’s, and everyone knew his older sisters smoked pot. But Vincent had been worrying about the wrong things; Ciel trying weed and getting giggly. Or sharing somebody’s light beer and throwing up in their parent’s bathroom. Making an idiot of himself. Or shit, getting somebody pregnant. These are the things you worry about with boys. 

Not your kid coming home after school with his hips bruised up from your best friend’s hands.

Vincent rang. ‘Just checking that Ciel’s okay.’

‘He’s fine,’ said the woman cautiously, ‘they’re all watching a movie upstairs.’ 

And he might as well say it because it couldn’t hurt. ‘Okay. Thank you. I don’t mean to sound paranoid but I’m just keeping an eye on him at the moment. He’s been going through some--issues.’

‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Oh, sure, honey.’ 

The sharpening curiosity in her voice needled him--and it was already pissing him off because she would absolutely tell the other parents tomorrow morning; but this wasn’t in his control. 

He hadn’t wanted this to happen.

Vincent shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘It’s just been a hard year for Ciel. A hard couple years.’ And what was her name? Shit. ‘I didn’t want to bother you, Amanda, but I just wanted to--’

‘No! Please, it’s no trouble. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for him, poor sweetie.’ She was probing now. ‘He’s been through so much, hasn’t he? And you too.’ Her voice picked up speed, coasting over the inevitable pity. ‘You poor boys. It’s the least I can do, making sure he has a good time tonight.’

‘Yeah. Please.’ Vincent heaved the deep sigh of an overburdened father. ‘That would be great.’

‘Oh, _sweetie._ I’ll make sure he’s fine.’

And there. Ciel wouldn’t be getting out of that house tonight. There’d be no escaping Maya’s mom’s eyes, and Vincent was feeling marginally better about the universe when he stepped into the shower.

He tried not to look at himself in the mirror as he towelled down afterwards. And this type of anxiety sat wrong in his bones; he took care of his body. Women were usually satisfied with him. He was the tallest man in most rooms and easily amongst the most attractive; this was objective. He knew it without ego.

There was an easiness of conversation missing from his manner, though. A lightness. A patience that he never regretted except in these moments. 

And then Annika arrived at half-past eight, and he didn’t need to think about anything.

She was pretty. 

When she pulled off her sweater, her bra was orange lace.

Her hair was so pale. Not a tangle of snow like Rachel’s had been, like the twins, but golden-white. A smooth ponytail. Ice-blue eyes under her smudged mascara. Her skin, though; the delicate veins across her breasts, a plump handful. And veins inside her wrists. He liked that.

He knew what she was, spread on his bedsheets. Her breath loud and hot at his shoulder. Community college, working check-outs, about to become a teacher. But he wondered what he looked like to her. 

He got her a drink afterwards.

At a quarter to eleven he told her his son would be getting home soon, and she gathered up her sweater and stuff and left. Comfortably, kissing his cheek before she left, with that pleasant understanding he always preferred in women. 

Some of the ache in his shoulders had eased. He could probably sleep soon. 

The pillow smelled like the girl's perfume, though, and it felt wrong as he moved around the bed, tidying. Tossing the condoms back into the bedside drawer. And he dropped the pillowcase into the laundry hamper on his way downstairs. 

It wasn’t even midnight and he still had a kind of restlessness. He poured himself another glass of wine. It was too late to call Amanda again to check on Ciel. Would the kid be asleep now? Or still watching movies, tucked between Maya and her sister on their bunk bed. 

It was weird to go to sleep without saying goodnight. Ciel’s voice. _Daddy._

And it burned him. Would he ever ask Sebastian why he’d made the kid say that? Except that he already knew. What else do you want a little boy to call you?

He wondered how that video ended. How Ciel ended, convulsed under Sebastian’s body.

Vincent’s cock twitched and he shifted on his feet. He got Ciel’s phone down.

He opened the photo folder, and it was empty. 

‘Fuck,’ he said. Out loud in the kitchen. He dropped the phone.

His first impulse was to call Sebastian, and that was a terrible idea. Completely fucking useless because he didn’t want to talk about anything tonight and with Sebastian there was only talk.

He couldn’t even process the implications here. The file had been a shared one and he hadn’t saved it to the phone. That had been a mistake. He hadn’t sent it to his own phone. Hadn’t backed it up onto disk. 

Of course Sebastian would delete it if he could.

His spine felt tight, cling-wrapped. He had made a mistake. But that wasn’t even his immediate problem. 

He went back upstairs and pushed open Ciel’s door and turned on the light and stood there blinking in the kid’s room. 

It was tidier tonight. Ciel must have stuffed most of the junk into his wardrobe. But it still lay everywhere, clothes and sneakers tossed on the floor. Vincent hadn’t come in here much this year, only to kick the kid’s mess into the corner while he vacuumed, but every time it looked different; Ciel liked to rearrange things, changing all the posters on the walls. Taping up new photographs. Moving the bed from one side to the other; it was under the window now with its covers thrown over the jumbled sheets, piled with his plush toys. 

It felt good to see this, though. Real, his actual child's room and not somebody’s idea. Not memory, not fantasy, just here and now. 

Ciel’s art was everywhere. Sketches and things. He mostly mimicked cartoon styles but that was okay, he’d grow out of that. Develop something of his own. 

And the shelves. The bottles of nail polish, arranged by colour. The little row of figurines, all characters Vincent didn’t know. The posters. Minecraft he recognised, but the rest, all of this--

The room smelled like Ciel. Sharp apple shampoo. And an artificial haze of sweetness, cotton candy, and he’d never dared to wonder if it was body spray or cheap perfume. 

Is this the scent Ciel left in Sebastian’s car?

The back of Vincent’s neck felt hot.

He pulled open the wardrobe door. Exactly what he’d expected. Shoved-in heaps of clothing, not all of it clean. He pulled some of it out onto the floor. But sorting would take a while. He’d have to clean this out tomorrow morning. 

And over in the mirrored dresser the single drawer was stuffed full too, candy wrappers and a clatter of pencils. Coins. This mess, this detritus of childhood. Vincent stirred through it with his hand; tubes of lip gloss. Rubber stamps. A silky drawstring bag, and he tugged it out by the ribbon. And opened it. 

The thing lay heavy in his palm. Sugar-pink, polished glass. Small and luminous, as sleek as the stopper of a perfume bottle but no, no, it was most definitely not.

Vincent’s throat tightened. It was expensive. An expensive gift. 

Did Ciel even know what it was for?

Which was-- goddamn, the stupidest fucking question. Of course Ciel knew. Sebastian would have made sure to show him. He would have made sure the kid was wearing it when he picked him up in that low black car. When he drove him home.

Ciel’s knees pressed together, the hard plug nestled up in the heat of his baby hole.

Vincent lowered himself down to sit on the carpet beside the bed. Looking at the pink turtle plush at his feet. Understanding nothing. Rubbing his thumb on the cold glass, and he was going to choke.

There was a photo of the twins on the wall above the mirrored dresser. He didn’t recognise the shot; it looked hazy, a sunset dreamworld. 

But Vincent remembered all their family holidays. And yeah, this one had been up at the lakes; Ciel must have used a filter on the picture. Tropical pink. It had become something strange and perfect. 

Is this what the kid did with all his memories? 

Maybe he lived like this, a pink haze inside his own head. Away from home, out of sight. In somebody else’s bed. 

Vincent didn’t need photographs to recall how things had been. Back when Val’s soccer boots had always been lying in the hallway. When Ciel’s hair had still been snowy pale, before he’d coloured it that stupid bubblegum blue. When the twins still held their daddy’s hand to cross the road. 

When Ciel had still been his. 

It swelled in Vincent’s throat, the sting of his exhaustion. The hunger of it. 

He unzipped his jeans and his body felt raw.

Nobody can be pulled apart under this kind of loneliness without feeling something, something-- 

Horror. Grief. 

He rested his head back into the tumble of Ciel’s bed, his cock aching in his hand. His eyes stinging with strange tears. 

A terrible need. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I hate Vincent more than any character I've ever written?  
> Absolutely.  
> I'd forgotten how cathartic this fic is. 
> 
> Thanks to all of you for your patience while I figured out where this story was heading-- and I'm proud to say it's only going to go steadily downhill into filth from this point. This is the calm midpoint of the story, if you will. This is about as reflective as Vincent gets, and he's going to prefer action in the future...
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter, you know the drill! Comment or tag me @Amanitus_M on twitter.  
> Here's to hoping the next update won't be so far away--  
> xx

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Teacher's pet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24155251) by [nympheanevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nympheanevil/pseuds/nympheanevil)




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